Praise for Anna Todd and the After series
“Todd [is] the biggest literary phenom of her generation.”
—Cosmopolitan
“I was almost at the point like with Twilight that I just stop
everything and my sole focus was reading the book . . . Todd,
girl, you are a genius!!!”
—Once Upon a Twilight
“The Mr. Darcy and Lizzy Bennet of our time . . . If you
looked up ‘Bad Boy’ in the fiction dictionary, next to it would
be a picture of Hardin alongside Beautiful Bastard and Mr.
Darcy.”
—That’s Normal
“The one thing you can count on is to expect the unexpected.”
—Vilma’s Book Blog
“Anna Todd manages to make you scream, cry, laugh, fall in
love, and sit in the fetal position . . . Whether you have read
the Wattpad version or not, After is a can’t-miss book—but get
ready to feel emotions that you weren’t sure a book could
bring out of you. And if you have read the Wattpad version,
the book is 10x better.”
—Fangirlish
“A very entertaining read chock-full of drama drama
drama . . . This book will have you from the first page.”
—A Bookish Escape
“I couldn’t put this book down! It went with me everywhere so
I could get my Hessa fix every spare moment I had. Talk about
getting hooked from page one!”
—Grown Up Fangirl
To all of my brilliant readers, who inspire me more than they
will ever know
Hessa Playlist:
“Never Say Never” by The Fray
“Demons” by Imagine Dragons
“Poison & Wine” by The Civil Wars
“I’m a Mess” by Ed Sheeran
“Robbers” by The 1975
“Change Your Ticket” by One Direction
“The Hills” by The Weeknd
“In My Veins” by Andrew Belle
“Endlessly” by The Cab
“Colors” by Halsey
“Beautiful Disaster” by Kelly Clarkson
“Let Her Go” by Passenger
“Say Something” by A Great Big World, ft. Christina Aguilera
“All You Ever” by Hunter Hayes
“Blood Bank” by Bon Iver
“Night Changes” by One Direction
“A Drop in the Ocean” by Ron Pope
“Heartbreak Warfare” by John Mayer
“Beautiful Disaster” by Jon McLaughlin
“Through the Dark” by One Direction
“Shiver” by Coldplay
“All I Want” by Kodaline
“Breathe Me” by Sia
part one
BEFORE
When he was little, the boy used to dream of who he would
grow up to be.
Maybe a policeman, or a teacher. Mummy’s friend Vance
read books for a job, and that seemed fun. But the boy wasn’t
sure of his own capabilities—he had no talents. He couldn’t
sing like the kid in his class Joss; he couldn’t add and subtract
long numbers like Angela; he could barely speak in front of
his classmates, unlike funny, loudmouthed Calvin. The only
thing he liked to do was read page after page of his books. He
waited for Vance to bring them by: one a week, sometimes
more, sometimes less. There were periods when the man
wouldn’t show and he would grow bored, rereading the same
torn pages of his favorites. But he learned to trust that the kind
man would always come back, book in hand. The boy grew
taller, grew smarter, an inch and a new book every two weeks,
it seemed.
His parents were changing with the seasons. His dad grew
louder, sloppier, and his mum grew more and more tired, her
sobs filling the night, louder and louder. The smell of tobacco
and worse began to fill the walls of the small house. As sure as
the dishes overflowing the sink was the smell of scotch on his
dad’s breath. As the months went on, he would sometimes
forget what his dad looked like altogether.
Vance came around more, and he barely noticed when his
mum’s sobs changed in the night. He had made friends at this
point. Well, one friend. The friend moved away, and he
himself never bothered to make new friends. He felt like he
didn’t need them. He didn’t mind being alone.
The men who came that night changed something deep
within the boy. What he saw happen to his mum made him
harden, and he grew angrier as his dad became a stranger.
Soon after, his dad stopped stumbling into the small, filthy
house at all. He was gone, and the boy was relieved. No more
scotch, no more broken furniture or holes in the walls. The
only thing he left behind was a boy without a dad and a living
room full of half-empty packs of cigarettes.
The boy hated the taste the cigarettes left, but loved the way
the smoke filled his lungs, stealing his breath. He found
himself smoking every single one, and then he bought more.
He made friends, if you could call a group of rebels and
delinquents who caused more trouble than they were worth
friends. He began to stay out late, and the little white lies and
harmless pranks the group of angry boys would play began
turning into more serious crimes. They turned into something
darker, something that they all knew was wrong—the deepest
level of wrong—but they thought they were just having fun.
They were entitled and couldn’t deny the adrenaline rush that
came with the power they felt. After each innocence they
stole, their veins pulsed with more arrogance, more hunger,
fewer boundaries.
This boy was the softest one still among them, but he had
lost the conscience that once made him dream of becoming a
fireman or a teacher. The relationship to women he was
developing wasn’t typical. He craved their touch, but shielded
himself against any type of emotional connection. This
included his mum, to whom he stopped saying even a simple
“I love you.” He barely saw her anyway. He spent almost all
his time running the streets, and the house came to mean
nothing to him except for the place where the packages
occasionally arrived. An address from Washington state was
scribbled under Vance’s name on these packages.
Vance had left him, too.
Girls paid attention to the boy. They latched on to him, long
nails digging crescents into his arms as he lied to them, kissed
them, fucked them. After sex, most of the girls would try to
wrap their arms around him. He would brush them off, placing
no kisses or soft caresses to their skin. Most of the time he was
gone before they caught their breath. He spent his days high,
his nights higher. Hanging out in the alley behind the liquor
store or in Mark’s dad’s shop, wasting life away. Breaking into
liquor stores, making unforgivable home videos, humiliating
naive girls. He had ceased being able to feel any kind of
emotion outside of arrogance and anger.
Finally, his mum had had enough. She no longer had the
funds or the patience to deal with his destructive behavior. His
dad had been offered a university job in the United States.
Washington, to be exact. The same state as Vance, the same
city, even. The good man and the bad man together in the
same place again.
His mum didn’t think he could overhear her speaking to his
dad about shipping him off there. Apparently the old man had
cleaned up some, though the boy wasn’t quite sure. He’d never
be sure. His dad had a girlfriend, too, a nice woman who the
boy was envious of. She got to see the benefits of the new side
of him. She got to share sober meals and kind words that he
never got the chance to hear.
When he arrived at the university, he moved into a frat
house, out of spite against the old man. But although he didn’t
like the place, moving his boxes into the decent-sized room
that would be his, he felt a slight twinge of relief. The room
was twice the size that his room in Hampstead had been. It had
no holes in the walls; there were no bugs crawling up the sinks
in the bathroom. He finally had a place to put all of his books.
At first, he kept to himself, not bothering to make any
friends. His crowd came together slowly, and with it he fell
into the same dark pattern.
He met the virtual twin of Mark, all the way over in
America, making him start to think this was the way the world
was just supposed to be. He began to accept that he would
always be alone. He was good at hurting people, at causing
mischief. He hurt another girl, like the one before, and he felt
that same storm coursing up and down his spine, fighting to
destroy his life with its wild energy. He began drinking the
way his dad did, being the worst type of hypocrite.
He didn’t care, though; he was numb and he had friends
and they helped him ignore the fact that he didn’t have
anything real in his life.
Nothing really mattered.
Not even the girls who tried to get through to him.
Natalie
When he met the blue-eyed girl with dark hair, he knew she
was there to test him in new ways. She was kind, the gentlest
spirit he had met so far . . . and she was infatuated with him.
He took the naive girl from her tidy, unblemished world
and swept her into a dustpan, then scattered her across a dark
and unforgiving world that was completely unfamiliar to her.
His callousness made her an outcast, exiled from her church
first, then from her family. The gossip was harsh, the whispers
traveling from one judgmental Bible-clutching woman to
another. Her family wasn’t any better. She had no one, and she
made the mistake of trusting him to be more than he was
capable of being.
What he did to her was the last straw for his mother.
Shipping him to America, to the state of Washington, to be
with his would-be father, his treatment of Natalie got him
exiled from his London homeland. The loneliness he’d felt all
along was finally achieved in real life.
The church is packed today, rows and rows of us, all joined
together to worship on a hot July afternoon. Every week,
usually the same people, all of whom I can call by their first
and last names.
My family lives like royalty here in one of Jesus’s smallest
venues.
My younger sister, Cecily, is sitting next to me in the very
front row, her small hands picking at the chipped wooden pew.
Our church has just received a grant to renovate some of the
interior, and our youth group has been helping gather the
supplies donated by the local community. This week, our task
is to obtain paint from locals and paint these pews over. I’ve
been spending my evenings going from one hardware store to
another, asking for donations.
As if to underscore the futility I feel about this task, I hear a
faint snapping sound and look over to see that Cecily has
broken off a small piece of wood from her seat. Her fingernails
are painted pink to match the bow in her dark brown hair, but
boy, can she be destructive.
“Cecily, we’re fixing these next week. Please don’t.” I
gently take her small hands in mine, and she pouts just a little.
“You can help paint them to make them beautiful again. You
would like that, wouldn’t you?” I smile at her. She smiles
back, an adorable missing-teeth smile, and nods her head. Her
curls move with her, making my mum proud of her work with
the iron this morning.
The pastor is almost finished with his sermon, and my
parents are holding hands, staring toward the front of the small
church. Sweat has been gathering on my neck, rolling in sticky
drops down my back as words about sinning and suffering
float around my head. It’s so hot in here that my mum’s
makeup has started to shine down her neck and smear black
rings around her eyes. This should be the last week without
air-conditioning we have to suffer through. Or it better be;
even I might feign illness to avoid this sweltering place if it’s
not.
At the end of service, my mum stands to talk to the pastor’s
wife. My mum admires that woman a lot—a little too much, if
you ask me. Pauline, the first lady of our church, is a tough
woman, with little empathy for others, so really I get why my
mum would be drawn to her.
I wave to Thomas, the only boy my age who’s in the Youth
Group. As he walks by, he and his entire family, following the
line of people exiting the church, wave back to me. Ready to
get some fresh air, I stand and wipe my hands on my pale blue
dress.
“Can you take Cecily to the car?” my dad asks with a
knowing smile.
He’s going to try to get my mum to stop talking, just like
every Sunday. She’s one of those women who chat and chat
after saying goodbye a minimum of three times.
I didn’t take after her in that way. Instead, I strive to take
after my dad, whose few words usually hold a lifetime’s worth
of meaning. And I know my dad loves how much of himself
has been passed down to me, from his quiet demeanor, to his
dark hair and pale blue eyes (the most obvious traits), to our
height. Or lack of height. The pair of us barely stand five and a
half feet, though he’s ever so slightly taller than me. Cecily
will surpass both of us by age ten, my mum teases us.
I nod to my dad and take my sister’s hand. She walks
quicker than me, the excitement of youth causing her to rush
straight through the remainder of the small crowd. I want to
pull her back, but she turns back to me with the biggest smile
on her face, and I can’t bring myself to do anything but run
with her. We break into a sprint, rushing down the stairs and
onto the lawn. Cecily dodges an elderly couple, and I laugh
when she shrieks and barely misses knocking down Tyler
Kenton, the meanest boy in our church. The sun is bright and
the air is thick in my lungs and I run faster and faster, chasing
after her until she tumbles onto the grass. I drop down to my
knees to check on her. I lean in and brush the hair back from
her face. Little pools of tears are threatening to burst, and her
bottom lip is trembling fiercely.
“My dress . . .” She pats her small hands on her white dress,
focusing on the grass stains on the fabric. “It’s ruined!” She
buries her face in her dirty hands, and I reach for them, pulling
them down to her lap.
I smile and speak softly. “It’s not ruined. It can be washed,
darling.”
I swipe my thumb across the tear trying to roll down her
cheek. She sniffles, not ready to believe me.
“It happens all the time; it’s happened to me at least thirty
times,” I assure her, even though it’s a lie.
The corners of her mouth turn upward, and she fights a
smile. “Has not.” She calls me out for my fib. I wrap my arm
around her and pull her up to stand. My eyes glance over her
pale arms to make sure I didn’t miss anything. All clear. I keep
my arm around her as we walk across the churchyard toward
the parking lot. My parents are approaching us from that
direction, my dad having finally gotten Mum to stop
gossiping.
During the drive home, I sit in the backseat with Cecily,
drawing little butterflies in her favorite coloring book while
my dad talks to my mum about the raccoon problem we’ve
been having in our bins out back. My dad leaves the car
running when he parks in the driveway. Cecily gives me a
quick kiss on the cheek and climbs out of the backseat. I
follow her and hug my mum and get a peck on the cheek from
my dad before I step into the driver’s seat.
My dad looks down at me. “Be careful now, Junebug.
There are a lot of people out today with the sun.” He lifts his
hand to shade his squinted eyes. It’s the sunniest day
Hampstead has had in quite a while. We’ve had the heat, but
no sun. I nod and promise my dad that I’ll be safe.
I wait until I’m out of the neighborhood to change the radio
station. I turn the volume up and sing along to every song on
my way to the center of the city. My goal is to get three
buckets of paint from all the three shops I’m visiting. I’ll be
happy with one from each, but my goal is to get three so we
have enough to cover everything.
The first shop, Mark’s Paint and Supply, is known for being
the cheapest in town. Mark, the owner, has a really good
reputation in our area, and I’m delighted to meet him. I park in
the nearly empty lot; only a classic-style car painted candy-
apple red and a minivan are parked in the entire lot. The
building is old, made out of wooden planks and unstable
drywall. The sign is crooked, the M barely legible. When I
open the wooden door, it creaks and a bell sounds. A cat jumps
down from a cardboard box and lands on its feet in front of
me. I pet the fur ball for a moment before making my way to
the register.
The inside of the shop is just as untidy as the outside, and
what with all the clutter, I can’t see the boy behind the register
when I first approach. His presence there shocks me a little.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered; he looks like the kind of boy
who’s played sports for years.
“Mark . . .” I say, stumbling to remember his last name.
Everyone just calls him Mark.
“I’m Mark,” a voice behind the athletic-looking boy says.
Bending to the side a little, I notice another boy, sitting in a
chair behind the desk, dressed in all black. His frame is much
leaner than the first, and yet the presence he exudes is
somehow larger than the other boy’s. His hair is dark, grown
down the sides, leaving a swoop of hair across his forehead.
His arms have tattoos on them, randomly scattered black ink
patches in a sea of tan skin.
It’s not really my thing, but instead of being critical of him,
all I can think is how everyone has a tan this summer except
me.
“He’s not, I am,” a third voice says. Looking to the other
side of the first boy, I find a kid of average height, thin build,
with a very tight buzz cut. “I’m Mark Junior, though. If you’re
looking for my old man, he’s not here today.”
The third boy has a few tattoos as well, though they’re
more organized than the wild-haired boy’s, and he has a
piercing in his eyebrow. I remember asking my family about
getting my belly button pierced, and still to this day I have to
laugh when I remember their horrified reactions.
“He’s the better of the two Marks,” the wild-haired boy
intones, his voice deep and slow. He smiles, and two deep,
beautiful dimples cut through his cheeks.
I laugh, suspecting this is not even close to the truth. “I
somehow doubt that,” I tease. They all laugh along, and Mark
Jr. steps closer, a smile on his lips.
The boy in the chair stands up. He’s so tall his presence is
magnified even further. He comes forward and towers over
me. He’s attractive; his face is strong. A sharp jawline, dark
lashes, full brows. His nose is slender and his lips are a light
pink. I stare at him and he stares at me.
“Are you looking for my dad for a reason?” Mark asks.
When I don’t immediately respond, Mark and the athlete
both look back and forth between me and their friend.
Snapping back to the moment, and a little embarrassed to
be caught staring, I begin my spiel. “I’m here from Hempstead
Baptist and was wondering if you would like to donate paint or
supplies to us. We’re remodeling our church and are in need of
donations . . .”
I stop because the charming one with the pink lips is deep
in discussion, whispering with his friends in a voice that is too
low for me to hear. Then they stop, and the boys stare at me all
at once, three smiles in a row.
Mark speaks first. “We can absolutely do that for you,” he
says.
His smile reminds me of a feline of sorts. I can’t quite put
my finger on why. I smile back and begin to thank him.
He turns to his friend with the giant ship tattooed on his
biceps. “Hardin, how many cans are over there?”
Hardin? What a very strange name; I’ve never heard it
before.
This Hardin’s black shirtsleeves barely cover the bottom
half of the wooden ship. It’s nicely done; the detail and
shading are attractively rendered. When I look up at his face,
stopping for a beat on his lips, I can feel my cheeks get hot.
He’s staring right at me, noticing my intense scrutiny of his
face. I see Mark and Hardin make eye contact but miss what
Mark mouths to him.
“How about a proposition?” Mark says, nodding toward
Hardin.
I’m interested in hearing this. This Hardin seems funny—a
little off, but I like him so far. “And what’s that?” I wrap my
finger into the ends of my hair and wait. Hardin is still staring
back at me. There’s something about him that’s guarded. I can
sense it from across the small shop. I find myself very curious
about this boy who’s trying awfully hard to look so tough. I
cringe imagining what my parents would think, how they
would react to me bringing him to our home. My mum thinks
tattoos are evil, but I don’t know. They’re not entirely my
thing, but I feel like they can be a form of self-expression, and
there’s undoubtedly always beauty in that.
Mark scratches his smooth jaw. “If you go out on two dates
with my friend Hardin here, I’ll give you ten gallons of paint.”
I look over to Hardin, who’s eyeing me with a smirk
playing at the corners of his lips. Lips that are so pretty. His
slightly feminine features make him more attractive than his
black clothing or messy hair. I wonder if this is what they’re
whispering about. Hardin liking me?
While I consider the idea, Mark ups the ante: “Any color.
Any finish of your choice. On the house. Ten gallons.”
He’s a good salesman.
I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “One
date,” I counter.
Hardin laughs; the lump in his throat moves with his laugh,
and his dimples crease in his cheeks. Okay, he’s very, very hot.
I can’t believe I didn’t notice just how hot he was when I first
arrived. I was so focused on getting the paint that I barely
noticed how green his eyes are under the fluorescent lights of
the paint shop.
“One date works.” Hardin shoves his hand into his pocket,
and Mark looks at the buzz-cut gentleman.
Feeling quite victorious at the success of my little haggling,
I smile and list the colors I need for the pews, the walls, the
stairs, all the while pretending that I’m not already anticipating
my date with Hardin, the guarded, messy-haired boy who’s so
innocent and shy that he’s willing to trade ten gallons of paint
for one date.
Molly
His mum told him stories about dangerous girls when he was a
boy. The meaner a girl is to you, the farther she runs from you,
the more she likes you. You should pursue her, young boys are
taught.
What those pushy boys grow up to find is that most of the
time, when a girl doesn’t like you, she simply just doesn’t like
you. The girl grew up without a woman to show her how to be.
Her mum dreamed of a fast life, bigger than she herself could
offer, and the girl learned how men were supposed to behave
by observing the actions of those around her.
As the girl grew up, she quickly caught on to the game and
became a master player.
I pull my dress down as I turn the dark corner to enter the
alleyway. I hear the mesh fabric rip as I tug it, and I curse at
myself for doing this again.
I’d taken the train to downtown hoping to accomplish . . .
something.
What, I’m not entirely sure, but I’m so, so tired of feeling
like this. Emptiness can make you behave in ways you could
never imagine, and this is the only way to satisfy the giant
fucking hole inside of me. The satisfaction comes and goes as
the men ogle me. They feel entitled to my body since I dress in
a way that purposely entices them. They are disgusting and
entirely wrong, but I play into their lust, encouraging their
behavior with a wink of my eye. A shy smile at a lonely man
goes a long way.
Needing this attention makes me sick to my stomach. It’s
more than an ache; it’s a scalding white-hot burn inside of me.
As I turn another corner, a black car approaches, and I
glance away as the man behind the wheel slows down to look
at me. The streets are dark, and this zigzag alley is located
behind one of the richest parts of Philadelphia. Shops line the
streets, each of them having their own back dock here.
There’s too much money and not enough pleasantness in
the Main Line.
“You want to go for a ride?” the man asks as his automatic
window rolls down with a smooth whir. His face is slightly
wrinkled, and his sandy-brown-and-gray hair is neatly parted
and combed down on the sides. His smile is charming, and he
looks good for his age, but there’s a warning that sounds in my
mind each and every weekend that I take this walk, follow this
zombie routine for some unknowable reason. The faux
kindness in his smile is just that, as fake as my “Chanel” bag.
His smile comes from money; I know this by now. Men with
black cars that are so clean they shine under the moonlight
have money but no conscience. Their wives haven’t fucked
them in weeks—months, even—and they search the streets for
the attention they’ve been deprived of.
But I don’t want his money. My parents have that, too
much of it.
“I’m not a prostitute, you sick fuck!” I kick my platform
boot at his stupid shiny car and notice the gleam of a band on
one finger.
His eyes follow mine, and he tucks his hand under the
steering wheel. Douchebag.
“Nice try. Go home to your wife—I’m sure whatever
excuse you’ve given her is set to expire.”
I begin to walk away, and he says something else to me.
The distance catches the sound, carrying it away into the night,
no doubt to some dark corner. I don’t bother looking back at
him.
The road is nearly empty since it’s after nine on a Monday
night. The lights on the backs of the buildings are dim, the air
calm and quiet. I pass behind a restaurant where steam billows
from the roof, and the smell of charcoal fills my senses. It
smells amazing and reminds me of backyard barbecues we’d
have with Curtis’s family when I was younger. Back when
they felt like a second family.
I blink the thoughts away and return the smile of a middle-
aged woman wearing an apron and a chef’s hat walking out of
the back entrance of a restaurant. The flame from her lighter is
bright in the night. She takes a drag from the cigarette in her
hand, and I smile again.
“Be careful out here, girl,” her raspy voice warns.
“Always am,” I reply with a smile and a wave of my hand.
She shakes her head and puts the cigarette back to her lips.
The smoke fills the cold air, and the red fire at the end of the
cigarette makes a crackling noise in the night’s silence before
she tosses it to the concrete and loudly stomps on it.
I continue walking, and the air grows colder. Another car
passes, and I move to the side of the alley. The car is black . . .
I look again and realize it’s the same shiny black as the last
one. A chill runs cold down my back as it slows, tires
crunching on the trash covering the alley.
I walk faster, choosing to step behind a Dumpster to gain as
much distance from the stranger as possible. My feet pick up
the pace and I walk a little farther.
I don’t know why I’m so paranoid tonight; I do this nearly
every weekend. I dress in a hideous smock, kiss my dad on the
cheek, and ask him for train fare. He frowns and tells me that I
spend too much time alone and that I have to move on in the
world before life passes me by. If moving on were so simple, I
wouldn’t be doing this quick change into this dress or shoving
the smock into my purse to put back on during the ride home.
Move on. As if it were so simple.
“Molly, you’re only seventeen; you have to get back to real
life before you’ve missed too much of the best years of your
life,” he tells me each time.
If these are the best years of my life, I don’t see much point
in living any longer than this.
I always nod, agreeing with him with a smile while silently
wishing he would stop comparing his loss to mine. The
difference is, my mom wanted to leave.
Tonight feels different somehow, maybe because the same
man is now stopping next to me for the second time in twenty
minutes.
I break into a run, letting my fear carry me down the
pothole-filled street to the busier road up ahead. A cab honks
at me when I stumble into the street and jump back to the
sidewalk, trying to catch my breath.
I need to go home. Now. My chest catches fire, and I
struggle to breathe in the cold air. I step back onto the
sidewalk and look in every direction.
“Molly? Molly Samuels, is that you?” a woman’s voice
shouts from behind me.
I turn around and see the familiar face of the last person I
want to run into. I fight the need to bolt in the other direction
when my eyes meet hers. She has a brown grocery bag in each
hand as she walks toward me.
“What are you doing out here, and this late?” Mrs. Garrett
asks as a chunk of hair falls down over her cheek.
“Just walking.” I try to push my dress down my thighs
before she looks again.
“Alone?”
“You’re alone, too,” I say, my tone more than defensive.
She sighs and shuffles the grocery bags to one arm. “Come
on, get in the car.” She starts toward the brown van parked on
the corner.
With the click of a button, the passenger-side door unlocks,
and I step inside hesitantly. I would rather be inside this car
with her and her judgment than out on the street with the guy
in the black car who doesn’t seem to take no for an answer.
My temporary savior gets into the driver’s side and looks
straight ahead for a minute before turning to me. “You know
you can’t act out like this for the rest of your life.” Her
statement ends in a strong tone, but her hands are shaking on
the wheel.
“I’m not—”
“Don’t act like nothing has happened.” Her response lets
me know that she isn’t in the mood to dance around social
niceties. “You’re dressed completely different than you used
to, certainly different than your father would probably approve
of. Your hair is pink—nowhere near its natural blond. You’re
out here at night, walking alone. I’m not the only one who
noticed you, you know. John, who goes to my church, saw you
the other night. He told us in front of everyone.”
“I—”
She waves her hand at my protest. “I’m not finished. Your
dad told me you aren’t even going to Ohio State now, in spite
of all those years of you and Curtis preparing to go together.”
The name coming from her lips slices through me, breaking
away at some hard shell I’ve gotten used to inhabiting. The
thick nothingness I’ve been guarding myself with. Her son’s
face covers my mind, and his voice fills my ears.
“Stop,” I manage to say through my pain.
“No, Molly,” Mrs. Garrett says.
When I look over at her, she’s flustered, like she has bottles
upon bottles of emotions inside of her that have been shaken
over the last six months and now are within an inch of
exploding.
“He was my son,” she says. “So don’t you sit here and act
like you have more of a reason to be hurt than me. I lost a
child—my only child—and now I’m sitting here watching
you, sweet Molly, who I’ve watched grow up, get lost, too—
and I’m not going to be quiet anymore. You need to get your
butt into college, get out of this town just like you and Curtis
planned on. Get on with life. It’s what we all have to do. And
if I can do it, hard as it is, you sure as hell can, too.”
When Mrs. Garrett stops talking, I feel like she’s spent the
last two minutes tying my stomach into knots. She has always
been a quiet woman—her husband has always done most of
the talking—but in the span of five minutes she’s become less
fragile somehow. Her usually soft voice has taken on a new
tone of determination, and she impresses me. Makes me feel
heartbroken, too, at the fact that I’ve let my life turn into this
ghoulish existence.
But I was driving that car.
I agreed to drive Curtis’s small truck the night before I got
my license. We were excited, and his smile was persuasive. I
loved him with every thread of my body, and when he died, I
came unstitched. He was my calmness, my reassurance that I
wouldn’t end up like my mother, a woman who lived and
breathed to be more than someone’s wife in a big house, in a
rich neighborhood. She spent her days painting and dancing in
our big house, singing songs and promising me that we would
make it out of the cookie-cutter town.
“We won’t die here—I’ll convince your father someday,”
she always said.
She only held up half of the deal and left in the middle of
the night two years ago. She couldn’t cope with the shame that
apparently came from being a mother and a wife. Most women
would have trouble finding shame in that, but not my mom.
She wanted all the attention on her—she needed people to
know her name. She blamed me when they didn’t, even
though she tried to deny the fact. She was always ashamed of
me; she constantly reminded me of what I did to her body. She
told me—many times—how her body looked so good before I
came around. She acted as if I chose to be placed there, inside
this selfish woman’s womb. One time she showed me the
marks I made on her stomach, and I cringed right alongside
her at the sight of her shredded skin.
Despite me hindering her lifestyle, she promised me the
world. She told me about bigger, brighter cities with giant
billboards that she wished she was pretty enough to be on.
And early one morning, having listened to her tell me about
the world she wanted the night before, I watched her through
the staircase’s thick metal banister as she dragged her suitcase
across the carpet toward the front door. She cursed and flipped
her hair off her shoulders. Dressed like she was going to a job
interview, she had full makeup, blow-dried hair—she must
have used half a can of hairspray to get it to look that way. She
was excited and confident as she touched her hair to adjust it
slightly.
Just before she walked out the door, she looked around her
beautifully decorated living room, and her face filled with the
biggest smile I had ever seen on her. Then she closed the door,
and I could imagine her happily leaning against it outside, still
smiling like she was going to paradise.
I didn’t cry as I tiptoed down the stairs, trying to memorize
how she looked and acted. I wanted to remember every
interaction, every talk, every hug we shared. I realized even
then that my life was changing again. I watched through the
living room window as she got into a cab. I just stared at the
driveway. I guess I always knew she wasn’t reliable. My father
might be afraid to leave the town he grew up in, where he has
an amazing job, but he’s fucking reliable.
Mrs. Garrett touches the tips of my pink hair with a
cautious finger. “Dipping your head in pink food coloring
won’t change anything that happened.”
I smile at her choice of words and say the first thing that
comes to mind. “I didn’t dye my hair because I watched your
son bleed out in front of me,” I snap, remembering the way the
deep pink dye resembled blood as I rinsed it down the drain.
I push her hand away, and, yeah, my words are harsh, but
who the fuck is she to judge me?
As she takes in what I said, I’m sure she’s picturing Curtis’s
mangled body, the one I sat with for two hours before anyone
came to help us. I tried to rip his seat belt from the driver’s
seat, to no avail. The way the metal bent when we hit the rail
made it impossible to move my arms. I tried, though, and I
screamed as the jagged metal tore into my skin. My love
wasn’t moving, he wasn’t making a sound, and I screamed at
him, at the car, at the entire universe as I struggled to save us.
A universe that betrayed me and went dark as his face paled
and his arms went slack. I thank it now, grateful that my body
shut off just after he died and I wasn’t forced to sit and watch
the thing that was no longer him, watch and hope that he
would somehow come back to life.
With a soft sigh, Mrs. Garrett starts the car and pulls out. “I
understand your pain, Molly . . . if anyone understands, it’s
me. I’ve been trying to find a way to continue with my life,
too, but you’re ruining yours over something you had no
control over.”
I’m baffled and try to focus by running one hand over the
plastic of the car door. “No control? I was driving the car.”
The sound of twisted metal colliding with a tree and then a
metal barrier floods my ears, and I feel my hands shaking on
my lap. “I was in control of his life, and I killed him.”
He was life, the very definition of it. He was bright and
warm and loved everything. Curtis could find joy in the most
stupid, most simple things. I wasn’t like him. I was more
cynical, especially after my mom left. But he listened to me
every time my anger fueled a mistake. On his birthday he
helped my dad clean up my mom’s painting room after I’d
trashed it by splattering black paint across the precious
paintings she’d left for us. He didn’t ask me why I wished her
dead on more than one occasion.
He never judged me, and he held me together in a way that
I couldn’t do myself. I always thought he would be the reason
I made it through college or made any friends in a new city. I
was never good at hiding what I thought of people, so it wasn’t
the easiest thing in the world for me to make friends. He
always told me it was fine, I was fine the way I was, that I was
just too painfully honest and he would have to be the one who
took the role of liar in our relationship. He would pretend to
like the pretentious, sweater-tied-around-their-waists rich kids
at our school. He was always the nice one, the one who
everyone loved. I was his plus-one. We were together so much
that everyone began to accept me and my attitude. He made up
for it, I suppose, with his charm. He was my excuse to the
world, because apparently he saw something in me. He was
the only person who would ever accept me and love me, but
then he left me, too. It was my fault, just like I’m sure my
mom left because she was tired of that town, of my dad’s
normalcy, and of her blond daughter with the bow in her hair.
The last ounce of my need to pretend to be normal was
gone as the sink turned pink and my blond disappeared.
“I have a friend with some clout out west in Washington.”
I had almost forgotten where I was, my mind reliving every
shitty experience in my life in less than ten minutes.
“I could ask him if he could pull some strings and get you
into a good school there. It’s pretty out there. Refreshing,
green. It’s late in the year now, but I will try it if you’re
willing,” she offers.
Washington? What the hell is in Washington?
I consider her offer, mulling over whether or not I even
want to go to college anymore. And as that question spins
through me, I realize that I do want to get out of this God-
awful town, so maybe I should agree. I used to think about
other cities when I was younger. My mom talked about Los
Angeles and how the weather made for a perfect day every
single day. She talked of New York and the way the streets are
full of people. She told me about the glamorous cities she
wanted to live in. If she could handle those cities, I have to be
able to handle Washington.
But it’s far, across the entire country. My dad would be
alone here . . . though maybe that would be good for him. He
barely has any friends anymore because he’s always so
worried about me, trying to get me to be happy. He’s given up
even attempting to worry about his own life. Maybe me going
away to college would help him. Maybe it would restore some
sense of normalcy.
It’s possible that I could make friends, too. My pink hair
might not be so intimidating to people in a town with some
sophistication. My revealing clothing might not be so
threatening to the girls my age in another city.
I could start over and make Mrs. Garrett proud.
I could give Curtis something to be proud of, too.
Washington could be just what the witch doctor ordered.
And so sitting in this woman’s car, this kind mother to the
boy I loved and lost, I vow, right now, that I’m going to do
better.
I won’t take trains to shady parts of town in Washington.
I won’t wallow in the past.
I won’t give up on myself.
I’ll only do things that will help my future—and I won’t
give a shit what anyone says along the way.
Melissa
He underestimated the girl when he first met her. He didn’t
know anything about her then, and still to this day he doesn’t
really know much. He met her brother first and spent nights
getting drunk with him, getting to know him and learning just
what a terrible person the guy was. Her brother was a snake,
slithering through the campus like it was his personal hunting
ground, picking and choosing his prey.
But through constant observation he saw that this snake had
one weakness: his sister, who was a force, tall with jet-black
hair and tan skin. As he grew to hate the snake, he noticed just
how tender this weakness was, how he would hover over the
girl like there was nothing else on earth of importance—other
than his own devious desires, of course. And convincing
himself that the snake was getting out of hand, that he was
spreading his filth like a proud pestilence that had to be
stopped, the boy formed a plan.
This filth had to be knocked down, and his sister was
nothing but a causality of war.
The house is so empty for a Friday night. My dad is at a
banquet for his promotion at the hospital, and all of my friends
are at another party. Neither option sounds appealing.
The party would be okay if it weren’t at the fraternity house
my brother always hangs out at. I can’t even enjoy myself
there because he’s so protective of me. It’s so frustrating.
The banquet may be a better option, but only marginally.
My dad, the most prestigious doctor in this town, is a better
doctor than parent . . . but he tries. His time is precious and
expensive, and I can’t compete with sick people whose
medical bills bought this massive house I’m currently sitting
around complaining in.
Feeling a little guilty, I grab my phone to text my dad that
I’m coming after all. Then, noticing it’s past nine, with the
banquet having started at eight, I realize I’ll just be an
interruption and give my dad’s young girlfriend more of a
reason to complain about me. Tasha is only three years older
than me and has been seeing my dad for over a year now. I
would be a little more understanding if I hadn’t gone to high
school with her and didn’t remember how bitchy she was. Or
if she didn’t act like she doesn’t remember me even though I
know damn well she does.
No matter how rude she is to me, I don’t complain to my
dad about her. She makes him happy. She smiles when he
looks at her. She laughs at his corny jokes. I know she doesn’t
care about him the way she should, but I’ve seen my dad
transform into a better version of himself since she came into
his office with a broken finger and perky boobs. My dad took
the divorce much harder than did my mom, who quickly
revealed that she was moving back to Mexico to live with my
grandparents until she got on her own feet.
I don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling. She was
awarded enough money in the settlement to afford a lifetime’s
worth of glass slippers.
Instead of bothering Tasha and my dad, I text Dan. He’s
been dating a girl I went to high school with. She, unlike me,
is still in high school. My brother is protective and loyal to a
fault, but he’s a total pig. Let me repeat: a total pig. I try my
best to stay out of his dating games. His friends are pigs too,
usually younger and even worse than him. He likes to
surround himself with people who are just as shitty as him, so
he can feel better about himself. He wants to be the king of the
rats, I suppose.
Dan responds rapidly, I’ll pick you up in twenty.
I send back a smiley face and jump out of my bed to get
ready. My bare face and gray WCU T-shirt won’t do. I should
look better than that. Still, I have to be somewhat careful with
my outfit choice if I don’t want to hear my brother bitch all
night.
I rummage through my closet, searching through the sea of
black and sequins. I have too many dresses. My mom always
gave me her dresses after she wore them once. My dad liked to
try to make her happy with shiny dresses and a red sports car,
but somehow her happiness never arrived. When she was
leaving, she gave me the option of moving back to Mexico
with her. But, funny as it might sound, I just couldn’t give up
swimming or my swim team. It’s more important to me than
anything else here in Washington. It was the only thing—
outside of my dad and Dan—that I would miss. Dan
considered moving back, but he didn’t want to leave me here.
Or couldn’t, given the constant eye he keeps on me.
After trying on two dresses and then throwing them back
into my closet, I pull out a jumpsuit I haven’t worn yet. It’s all
black except for some small print on the thick shoulder straps.
It’s tight enough to show off my butt, casual enough to wear to
the party, and covers enough of my body for my brother to
keep his mouth closed.
Just as I finish getting ready, Dan’s obnoxious horn blows
outside, and I grab my purse and rush down the stairs. If I
don’t hurry, the neighbors will complain about the noise again.
I quickly set the security code and bolt out the door, and when
I reach Dan’s Audi, I realize he’s brought a couple of his
dudebro friends along.
“Logan, let her in the front,” Dan says.
I’ve been around Logan a handful of times, and he’s always
been nice to me. He hit on me once at some party. When I
stood up from the couch I was on, and he realized that I’m at
least four inches taller than him, he said we would make great
friends. I laughed in agreement, impressed by his gentle
teasing. Since then, he’s become my favorite of my brother’s
band of idiots.
“It’s fine. I’ll just get in the back,” I say when Logan
unbuckles his seat belt. I climb into the backseat to find a guy
with dark, wavy hair hiding his face. It’s swept to the side in a
weird emo way, but it matches perfectly with the piercings in
his eyebrow and lip. He doesn’t look up from his phone when
I sit down or when I say hi.
“Ignore him,” Dan says, meeting my eyes in the rearview
mirror.
Rolling my eyes, I pull out my own phone. Might as well
entertain myself during the drive.
At the frat house, there’s nowhere to park. Dan offers to
drop me at the house so I don’t have to walk. I pop out, but
after I close my door, I hear the other door close too. Looking
up, I see the guy from the backseat walking toward the house.
“Fucker!” Dan yells to him.
The stranger lifts his hand into the air, middle finger raised.
“I’m pretty sure he’d rather you walk with them,” I tell
him, following him up the lawn. A group of girls stare at him
as we walk by; one of them whispers something to another and
they all look at me.
“You got a problem?” I ask them, meeting their dolled-up,
desperate faces. All three of them shake their heads in a way
that says they didn’t expect me to call them out.
Well, they were wrong. I don’t react kindly to prissy blonds
who talk about other people to make themselves feel
important.
“They probably just pissed their pants,” the wavy-haired
guy says to me. His voice is deep, so deep, and I swear I heard
an English accent. He slows down his pace but doesn’t turn
around to look at me. His arms are covered in tattoos. I can’t
make out what any of them are, but I can see that they’re all
black ink, no color at all. It fits him, with his black jeans and
matching T-shirt. His boots make a muffled stomp against the
soft grass.
I try to keep up with him, but his strides are too wide. He’s
tall, a few inches on me.
“I hope they did,” I tell him, and look at the girls one more
time. They’ve moved on now, staring and pointing at a
drunken girl in a small dress who’s stumbling by them.
He doesn’t say another word to me as we walk inside the
house. He doesn’t look back at me when he walks into the
kitchen or when he screws the top off of a bottle of whiskey
and takes a swig. I’m curious about him now, so when Dan
and Logan walk into the living room, I decide to get the dirt on
the tattooed stranger. I grab a wine cooler from a bucket on the
counter and walk over to my brother. He’s sitting on the couch,
beer in hand. He smells like weed already, and his eyes are
bloodshot when they meet mine.
“Who was the guy in the backseat?” I ask him.
His expression changes. “Who, Hardin?”
He’s not happy that I asked. And Hardin? What kind of
name is that?
“Stay away from him, Mel,” Dan warns me. “I mean it.”
I roll my eyes and decide this is not something worth
fighting my brother over. He never approves of any of my
boyfriends, and yet he tried to set me up with his best friend,
Jace—by far the most disgusting of his friends. Clearly my
brother’s standards are as inconstant as the highs and lows of
his weed and alcohol intake.
When my brother pats an empty cushion next to him, I sit
quietly and people-watch for a bit. The music gets louder, the
crowd more and more into their drinks, their moods, the vibe.
A few minutes later, when Logan asks my brother if he
wants to smoke again, I look around the house for Hardin. I
don’t think I’ll get used to that name.
But there he is in the kitchen, standing alone against the
counter. The bottle of whiskey is significantly less full than it
was when I last saw him—say, fifteen minutes ago.
So he’s a party boy, then. Good.
I get up from the couch quickly, too quickly, and as Dan
grabs for my arm, I realize I better come up with a reason for
leaving the room. If I tell him that I’m going to find Hardin, I
know he’ll follow me.
“Where’re you going?” he asks.
“To pee,” I lie. I hate that he always invites me to these
parties but acts like he’s my dad when it comes to me leaving
his side.
He stares at me, studying my eyes as if he can tell that I’m
lying, but I turn away. I feel his eyes on me as I cross the
living room, so I walk toward the staircase. The only
bathrooms in this massive house are all upstairs, which of
course makes no sense, but that’s frat houses for you.
I take the stairs slowly, and when I reach the top, I look
back at my brother, then turn around and run smack into a
black wall.
Only it’s not a wall—it’s Hardin’s chest.
“Shit, sorry!” I exclaim, wiping at the splatter of wetness on
his shirt from my wine cooler. “At least it won’t stain,” I tease.
His eyes are bright green and so intense that I have to look
away.
“Haha,” he says, monotone.
Rude. “My brother told me to stay away from you,” I blurt
out without thinking. His stare is so intense it’s driving me
crazy to keep eye contact, but I don’t want to back down from
him. I get the feeling he’s used to that. I get the feeling that’s
how you lose with this one.
He raises the brow that has a ring in it. “Did he, now?”
Yep, definitely an English accent. I want to comment on it,
but I know how annoying it is when people point out how you
talk. I get it all the time.
I nod, and the Brit opens his mouth to speak again. “And
why is that?”
I don’t know . . . but I want to.
“You must be pretty bad if Dan doesn’t like you,” I joke.
He doesn’t laugh.
My shoulders are tense now; Hardin’s energy has captured
me already.
“If we’re taking character judgments from him, we’re all
fucked,” he says.
My instinct is to fight him, to tell him that my brother isn’t
that bad, just misunderstood. I should defend him against this
insult.
But then I remember the day when the entire family of
Dan’s last girlfriend showed up to the house, the poor pregnant
girl hiding behind her angry father. My dad wrote a check, and
the lot of them disappeared with my niece or nephew, never to
be heard from again. Something inside me knows there’s
something darker inside my brother, but I refuse to
acknowledge it.
With my mom so far away and my dad so far up Tasha’s
butt, he’s all I have.
I laugh. “I’m sure you’re so much better.”
Hardin lifts his tattooed hand up and pushes his hair off his
forehead. “Nope, I’m worse.”
Looking directly into my brown eyes, I somehow know
he’s serious. I can feel the warning behind his words, but when
he offers me the half-empty bottle of whiskey, I take a swig.
The whiskey burns as bright as his eyes . . .
And I have the feeling that Hardin is made of gasoline.
Steph
When he first met the flame-haired girl whose arms were
covered in tattoos, he saw something dark in her. He felt
something competitive in the way she stared at her friend with
hair lighter than her own. She compared everything they did,
and he saw that desperation for attention that she held inside of
her. She reminded him of a maiden named Roussette from a
fairy tale he’d read when he was a child. The red-haired
princess was jealous of her younger sisters when they married
princes, even though she’d wed an admiral herself. It wasn’t
good enough, though; he wasn’t good enough unless he made
her better than her sisters. The girl hated the idea of losing
anything, even things she claimed were not hers. She couldn’t
stand being second-best, and she hungered to be the one
people paid attention to. She couldn’t stand the idea of
someone else getting what she felt she deserved, and she
believed that what she deserved was nothing less than
everything under the sun.
My dad is home late from work again. He’s been late every
night, and I was supposed to be able to use his car to pick up
my prom dress this week. All of my friends got their dresses a
month ago, and I’m starting to panic. If I don’t have a dress for
prom, I will lose my fucking mind. I’m so frustrated, and it’s
complete bullshit that my dad is late again and my mom is too
busy watching my niece to listen to my justified complaints.
Everything revolves around my sister and her baby. People
always talk that bullshit about the youngest being the baby of
the family. It sounds nice, but I grew up with nothing but
hand-me-downs and last-minute birthday parties where no one
showed up except my immediate family. I’m the reject of the
family, the weird one who’s become a ghost in her own home.
And I’m not even sure why.
The last time my mom said more than two words to me was
when I stained the sink upstairs red with cheap hair dye. She
was frantic because my timing was perfect: the night before
my sister Olivia’s baby shower. I may have accidently spilled a
little on the bath mat, and it’s possible that I used my parents’
embroidered towels to cover my shoulders while I let the fire-
engine-red dye soak into my strands.
But I hadn’t dared ruin Olivia’s shirt from when she was
my age, you see.
That’s another thing I hate to hear: “When Olivia was
seventeen, she was the student council president,” or “When
Olivia was seventeen, she had straight A’s and a popular
boyfriend who she married right after high school.”
I’m so tired of being compared to my sister—she was the
golden child, and there’s nothing I can do to even win silver, it
feels like. I can’t wait to leave for college. Due to my parents’
constant pressure, I’m going to Washington Central, where
Olivia graduated with honors.
They never cared about that college until my sister went
there, and I’ll never live up to the comparisons to her, but I’m
done trying and it’s easier just to say yes to going there and
blow this place.
As soon as my dad’s Jeep pulls into the driveway, I grab my
purse, check the mirror one last time, and rush down the stairs,
where I nearly run into my mom—not that she even notices
my fishnet tights or red leather top. She just mumbles
something while looking at her e-reader. That’s all she ever
does.
The front door opens, and my sister walks into the living
room with my dad. Sierra, my baby niece, is asleep in my
sister’s arms.
“I’m so tired,” Olivia announces to the room as she strolls
through it.
Quickly, my mom appears, closing the case of her tablet
and setting it absentmindedly on the mantel of the fireplace.
Of course, for Olivia she can take a break from her precious
screen.
“Stephanie can drive you home, honey,” my dad offers on
my behalf.
“Dad, I have to get my prom dress, and they close in thirty
minutes!” I toss my bag across my shoulder and reach for his
keys.
“Olivia and Sierra can ride with you.”
My sister interrupts. “I won’t mind. Just let me use the
bathroom for a second.”
Her soft brown hair moves when she talks. She’s wearing
khakis and a short-sleeve shirt with bright flowers printed on
it. My dad smiles like his eldest daughter is the most
thoughtful and considerate girl alive.
It’s super annoying.
“Fine,” I huff. “But this is the last day they’ll hold it for me,
so if I can’t go to prom, it’s your fault.” I glare at my sister.
Olivia nods, and I push past my dad to get outside. “I’ll be in
the car.”
I start the car and wait for Olivia. Five minutes pass. Ten
minutes pass. I send two texts and she doesn’t respond. I know
she read them from the little indicator on my phone. Yet she’s
still inside the house. I’m guessing her and my mom are on
their fourth goodbye hug. My mom does that when we go to
my grandma’s house, too, requiring multiple hugs to satisfy
her need for affection. Twelve minutes go by, and I finally
leave the car to return to the house.
Just as I begin to close the car door, my sister walks outside
with a languid pace and an oblivious smile on her face. She
still has to buckle Sierra into her car seat.
“Olivia, we have to go,” I say, to rush her along.
She sighs and mutters a half-hearted apology.
IT’S 8:03 WHEN I PARK in front of the dark shop. The sign
on the door is turned around to CLOSED and the lights are off.
And now I can’t get my dress. Today was the last day, and
this was after my second extension. I begged for extra time,
but I was told repeatedly that this was my last day. This sucks
so bad.
“I’m sorry, Stephanie,” Olivia says as I lay my head on the
steering wheel.
I turn my head to the side and scowl at her. “This is your
fault.”
“It’s not my fault,” she says, with the nerve to look
surprised. “Dad wanted to take me shopping to get some new
shoes for Sierra. She outgrows them so fast—”
New baby shoes? Are you freaking serious? I missed my
prom dress because her baby needed new shoes—the child
doesn’t even walk!
“Why couldn’t Dad just take you home directly? You
would have been back way sooner,” I say, raising my head,
and my voice.
“I wasn’t tired then . . . I don’t know.” She shrugs her
shoulders like my time means nothing to her. Like this isn’t a
big deal.
“This is such bullshit!” I shake my head and put my hands
over my face.
“Don’t talk like that in front of the baby!” my sister
whisper-yells.
I groan and back out of the parking space. We’re both silent
the entire way home. Olivia doesn’t feel as if she’s done
anything wrong, and I’m too mad to talk to her right now. I’m
so tired of her stealing everything from me—and on top of
that, Sierra keeps crying as if she’s trying to split my brain in
half.
I hate my life.
When we get to Olivia’s house, she thanks me for dropping
her off. I don’t want to step foot into her new house, so I’m
glad she doesn’t ask me in. A house that I’m pretty sure my
parents helped her and Roger buy. Her husband is quiet; he
doesn’t say much around my family. Olivia probably tells him
not to. I’m sure everyone gets the warning label read to them
before they have to have any exposure to me.
I don’t really want to go inside, but I have to pee and it’s
another fifteen minutes back to my parents’. Walking into
Olivia’s house, I immediately notice that it smells heavily of
cinnamon. Olivia burns those candle-oil things in every room.
Roger is sitting on the couch with a remote in one hand and
a computer on his lap. When he notices us entering the room,
he smiles up at his wife and then politely asks me how I’ve
been. I say I’m the same as before, though I can’t remember
the last time I actually saw him.
After a few minutes of awkward small talk, Olivia tells us
that she’s going to put the baby to bed. She walks upstairs with
a stuffed teddy bear in one hand and a bottle in the other.
Roger barely glances at me as I walk by, looking at all of their
stupid family pictures on the mantel above the fake fireplace.
Roger stands up and walks into the kitchen—trying to avoid
further conversation with me, no doubt.
In the last picture, their perfect little family poses in all
matching white and black in a small wooden frame. Heading
toward the kitchen, I find, hanging on the hallway wall in a big
metal frame, a picture of Olivia and Roger on their wedding
day. She’s so perfect in the picture: perfect hair, perfect
makeup, and her dress is beautiful. A soft, silky white dress
that touches the floor in a regal way. She looks like a princess,
like she was made for that dress.
Her dress is the exact opposite of my would-be prom dress.
The dress I was supposed to pick up tonight is made from
black cotton and tulle. The bodice is tight, lined with lacy tulle
along the edges of the star-shaped skirt. It’s a dress that, thanks
to Olivia, I’ll never have. I find myself wishing I had a bucket
of black paint to ruin her stupid, perfect dress. I look to the
next photo on the wall and stop at a picture of Roger, his arms
wrapped around Olivia’s pregnant stomach.
She ruined my prom dress. I’ll ruin her wedding dress.
When I walk into the kitchen, Roger is standing in front of
the fridge, his face buried inside and hidden by the doors. I tap
my hand against the stone counter to get his attention. The
moment he turns around, I tug on the hem of my shirt,
exposing a nice amount of my cleavage to him. He inhales and
then lets out a little cough.
I smile. I bet my sister hasn’t fucked her husband since she
popped out his baby.
“Sorry.” I wrap my hair around my finger as Roger’s eyes
try not to run down my legs, taking in my fishnet hose.
“Hi,” I say, and keep walking toward him.
My heart is racing and I don’t know what the fuck I’m
doing, but I’m pissed off at my sister and I’m fucking tired of
her getting everything and I’m thinking of how everything is
always about perfect Olivia and nothing is ever mine and so
she shouldn’t have anything that’s hers either. Especially not a
cute and loyal puppy of a husband.
“W-what are you doing, Stephanie?” Roger asks me, his
face much paler than it was just seconds ago.
“Nothing. Just talking.” I grab the waistline of my skirt and
pull it up further, to the middle of my stomach, showing my
lace panties to him, and when Roger backs away, his back hits
the wooden cabinets, slamming one of the doors shut.
“What’s wrong?” I ask with a laugh. My stomach is in a
knot and I feel like I’m going to pass out any freaking second,
but I feel amazing and powerful at the same time. Adrenaline,
it must be. I love it. I want more of it. I step even closer and
reach for the zipper on the front of my shirt.
Roger covers his face. “Stop it, Stephanie.”
Fuck this, he’s actually a loyal puppy like I thought.
Knowing this adds to the burn of my jealousy.
“Come on, Roger, don’t be such a—”
“Stephanie! What the hell are you doing?” Olivia’s voice
fills the kitchen.
I look over to the doorway to see her leaning there. She
changed into pajamas, flannel ones with blue lining. She’s
pissed.
After a few seconds, she turns to her husband. “Roger?”
“I don’t know, babe, she just came in here and started trying
to take her clothes off.” He tosses his hands up in the air in a
frantic plea for his wife to see how crazy her slutty sister is.
She turns in my direction, glaring a hole through me. “Get
out, Stephanie.”
“You didn’t even ask me if it wasn’t true,” I tell her, getting
pretty pissed off about that fact. I toss my purse over my
shoulder and pull my skirt back down to cover my body.
“I know you,” she says matter-of-factly.
She knows me? She doesn’t know me at all, actually. If she
did, she would know better than to be such a selfish cunt.
“And . . . ?” I look at Roger, and he inches back like I’m a
snake. Like he can judge me? If he wasn’t afraid to get caught,
I guarantee he would have me bent over their shiny granite
counter.
“Well, did you try to come on to my husband or not?”
Olivia’s mouth is trembling; she’s holding back tears. I should
deny it, flip the script on both of them and blame him. He’s
pathetic enough that she would believe me. I can cry on
demand, too, and if I wanted to, I could convince her of
anything.
Oh, please.
“You’re such a spoiled bitch!” she yells at me, and Roger
crosses the kitchen and wraps his arm around her shoulders.
I’m a spoiled bitch? Is she serious? She gets everything she
fucking wants, and it’s bullshit. I’m sick of being the runner-
up to her. She’s lucky I didn’t do something worse. I could
have hurt him, or her, in a far more serious way. Even some of
the thoughts I’m having now are surprising me . . . and I like
it.
“Get out, Stephanie.” Olivia shakes her head as her
husband rubs her trembling hands.
I do just that. I won’t have to put up with any more of this
shit soon.
I’m going to college soon.
And once I’m there, I’m going to run that fucking campus.
part two
DURING
Hardin
He was misguided, moving through life with minimum
expectations of himself. He was getting too used to life in that
foreign place—even believing that his accent was slightly
washing away with each night he spent away from home. He
nailed his life down into a robotic loop of the same actions,
same reactions, same consequences. The women were
blending together, their names becoming an endless loop of
Sarahs and Lauras and Jane Does.
He wasn’t sure how his life could continue this way, day in
and day out.
And then the first week of the next year, he met her. She
was strategically placed at Washington Central by someone or
something more powerful than him—to taunt him. He—or it—
knew who he was, the kind of person he was known for being,
and he had an agenda. He was set to steal another innocence,
to ruin another girl’s life. It won’t be so bad this time, he
figured. He wouldn’t go to the same extremes as before. This
was different, more juvenile. This was all just in fun.
And it was, until the wind caught her hair and it whipped
around her face. Until the gray of her eyes haunted his sleep
and the pink of her lips drove him mad. He was falling hard
for her—at first it was so fast that he wasn’t sure if he was
actually feeling it or imagining it. But he felt it . . . he felt it rip
through him like the roar of a lion. He began to rely on her for
his every breath¸ every thought.
• • •
One night in the middle of it all, the snow falling, blanketing
the concrete, he sat alone in the parking lot. His hands were
gripping the steering wheel of his old Ford Capri, and he could
barely see straight, let alone think straight.
How could he have done this? How did it go so far so fast?
He wasn’t sure, but he knew, he felt it deep down inside of
himself, that he shouldn’t have done it, and he knew that he
would regret it. He was regretting it already.
She was supposed to be an easy target. A beautiful girl with
an innocent smile and odd-colored eyes that weren’t supposed
to hold depth or meaning behind them. He wasn’t supposed to
fall in love with her, and she wasn’t supposed to make him
want to be a better person.
He thought that he was fine before.
He was getting by just fine before—before he made the
beautiful mistake of allowing her to become his entire world.
He loved her, though, he loved her so much that he was
terrified of losing her—for losing her meant losing himself,
and he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear such a loss after
going his entire life without something to lose.
As his fingers gripped harder and his knuckles turned white
against the black steering wheel, his thoughts became more
jumbled. He became more irrational and desperate, and he
realized in that moment, with the silence of the empty lot
drowning his fears, that he would do anything—absolutely
anything—to keep her forever.
He had her, lost her, and had her again over the months that
followed. He just couldn’t quite get it. He loved her. His love
for her burned brighter than any star, and he would highlight
passages from ten thousand of her favorite novels to show her
that. She gave him everything, and he watched her fall in love
with him, hoping he would stop letting her down. Her faith in
him made him want to be good for her. He wanted to prove her
right and everyone else wrong. She made him feel a type of
hope that he had never felt before. He didn’t even know it
existed.
Her presence made him feel at ease; the fire in his heart was
cooled and he was becoming addicted to her. He craved her
until he had her, and once he took her, neither of them could
stop. Her body became his safety, her mind his home. The
more he loved her, the more he was hurting her. He couldn’t
stay away, and through their struggles and growth, she became
the normalcy he’d craved his entire life.
His relationship with his dad continued to grow slowly into
something close to familiar. A few family dinners, and he had
begun to chip away at the hatred he felt toward the man. He
was seeing himself differently, and that helped him see the
wrongs of his father in a different light. And that’s when he
needed her to anchor him, as his life changed again and his
family shifted. He was growing to care for a houseful of
strangers in a way that he swore he never would.
It wasn’t easy for him to fight against twenty years of
destructive patterns and base animal reactions.
He had to fight each day against the liquor calling to his
blood, against the anger he was trying to let go of . . . but
didn’t know how to. He vowed that he would fight for her—
and he did. He lost a few battles, but never lost sight of
winning the war. She taught him laughter and taught him love
—and he has expressed this time after time to her, but he will
never stop.
one
The last few days of summer break are always the best.
Everyone is fucking frantic, living out their last-minute
summer plans and wishes. The parties get more crowded, the
girls get more wild . . . but even so, I can’t fucking wait for the
semester to start. Not because I’m some idiotic freshman,
excited for the wondrous world of university. No, I’m anxious
because if I play my cards right, I’ll be graduating in the
spring, a full year ahead of time.
Not bad for a delinquent no one assumed would even attend
university, much less graduate early.
My mum was so terrified for my future that she sent me
halfway across the damn world to the grand state of
Washington to live near my father. She used the bullshit
excuse that she wanted me to “reconnect” with him, but I
wasn’t fooled. I knew she simply couldn’t and didn’t want to
put up with my shit anymore, so off to America, like some
colonial Puritan of old.
“Are you almost done?” Pink hair and swollen lips look up
at me from between my legs. I had nearly forgotten she was
here.
“Yeah.” I wrap my hands around her shoulders and close
my eyes, letting the physical pleasure she’s giving me take
over. A distraction, that’s what she is. They all are.
The pressure in my spine builds, and I don’t bother to
pretend that I enjoy her company for more than sexual
pleasure as I release into her warm mouth.
Seconds later, she’s wiping at her lips with the back of her
hand and getting to her feet.
“You know . . .” Molly reaches for her purse and pulls out a
tube of dark lipstick. “You could at least pretend to be
interested, asshole.” Her lips pucker, and she wipes a finger
across the excess crayon painted onto her mouth.
“I am.” I clear my throat. “Pretending, that is.”
She rolls her eyes and raises her middle finger to me. I’m
interested—sexually, at least. She’s a good enough fuck, and
she’s okay company sometimes. We are a lot alike, her and I.
Both rejects of our families. I don’t know too much about her
past, but I know enough to know that some bad shit has
happened to her to make her run all the way to Washington
from some rich-bitch town in Pennsylvania.
“Dick,” she mutters, pushing the cap back on her makeup.
She looks better with naturally pink lips, lips that are swollen
from having my cock in her mouth.
Molly is an acquaintance of mine. Well, a friend with
benefits, I would say. Our “friendship” isn’t exclusive, not in
the least, and we both have full freedom to do whatever, or
whoever, the fuck we want. She hates me half the time, but
I’m okay with that. It’s mutual.
The rest of our friends give us shit about it, but it works.
I’m bored and she’s here. She gives good head and she doesn’t
stay around long after. Perfect situation for me. Her, too, it
seems.
“You’ll be here tonight, for the party?” she asks.
I stand, too, pulling my boxers and jeans up my legs. “I live
here, don’t I?” I raise a brow at her.
I hate it here, and daily I find myself wondering just how
the fuck I ended up in a fraternity in the first place.
My shitbag sperm donor. That’s how. Ken Scott is a grade-
A fuckup, the worst type. Alcoholic fuckhead who destroyed
my entire childhood, only to magically turn his life around and
move in with some lady and her son, a loser only two years
younger than me.
His do-over, I suppose. Ken Scott gets a fucking do-over,
and I get to be in a stupid-ass fraternity at the college he’s
basically in charge of. On top of this, he practically begged me
to move in with him, as if he thought I would actually live
under his roof, under his control. When I refused, I had
assumed he would get me an apartment, but of course he
didn’t. So here I am, in this stupid house instead. It really
pissed him off that I chose this shithole rather than his clean,
pristine palace.
The stupid-ass fraternity does have its perks, I guess. A
massive house with parties almost every night, a constant
stream of endless pussy. And the best part of all: no one fucks
with me.
None of the pissant frat boys seem to mind the fact that I
don’t do shit to actually represent the house. I don’t wear their
stupid sweatshirts or plaster their stupid bumper stickers on
my car. I don’t participate in any of the volunteer shit, and I
sure as hell don’t go around yelling the name of the shit. They
do some okay shit for the community, but they don’t actually
give a fuck about the community, and none of that matters.
When I glance around the room, I realize I’m alone. Molly
must have left without me even noticing.
I get up and open the window to air the place out before it
gets used again tonight. All of these empty rooms in the house
work in my favor since I can’t stand to have people in my
own. It’s too personal or something, I don’t know, but I don’t
like it, and everyone has learned one way or another not to
come in here. Molly and whichever other girls come around
know we’re bound for these empty rooms and not mine.
As I approach my door, I see Logan stumbling down the
hall, a short, curly-haired girl under his arm. She isn’t quiet
about what she wants to do to him, and I’m not quiet about my
disgust.
“Get a damn room!” I shout to them.
She giggles and he flips me off and I close and dead-bolt
the door. That’s the pattern around here. Everyone sort of
ignores me or simply tells me in one way or another to fuck
off. I’m okay with that. I’d much rather sit here, in my room,
alone, waiting for the next artificial high.
My fingers trace over the dusty shelves of my bookcase. I
can’t decide which novel I feel like living right now . . .
Hemingway, maybe? He can give me a good dose of cynical.
The middle Brontë sister? I could use a dysfunctional bullshit
love story right now. I grab Wuthering Heights and kick my
boots off before lying down in my bed.
I don’t know what it is about this novel that brings me to
read and reread it so many damn times, but I always find
myself skimming the pages of the dark tale. It’s fucked up,
really—two people coming together, then falling part.
Destroying themselves and everyone around them because
they were too selfish and stubborn to get their shit together.
But to me that’s the best type of fucking story. I want to feel
something while I’m reading, and sappy, roses-and-sunshine
novels make me want to vomit on their pages and burn away
the evidence afterward.
“Fuck, yes!” I hear a female voice screech through the
paper-thin walls.
“Shut the fuck up!” I pound my fist against the old wood,
grabbing my pillow and pushing it against my ears.
One more fucking year. One more year of bullshit courses
and easy exams. One more year of boring parties full of people
who care way too much what everyone thinks about them. One
more goddamn year of keeping to myself and I can get my ass
back to London, where I belong.
two
To this day, he can still remember the way vanilla filled the
small dorm room the first time he was alone with her. Her hair
was soaked, she had a towel wrapped around her curvy body,
and it was the first time he paid attention to the way her chest
flushed when she was mad. He would see her mad again, so
damn mad, more times than he could count, but he would
never, ever, forget the way she tried to be polite to him at first.
He took her politeness as pride. Another stubborn girl who
pretends to be a woman, he thought. The strange girl kept on
being as patient as she could. For no reason at all. She didn’t
owe him anything, she still doesn’t, and he can only hope to
see her mad at him again and again, for the rest of his life.
He grasps for the memories of those days now, as he sits
alone, trapped by his own mistakes. These memories of his
anger, of her anger, are a few of the only things that kept him
afloat after she left him.
The first day of the fall semester is always the absolute best
for people-watching. So many fucking idiots running around
like chickens with their heads cut off, so many girls dressed in
their favorite outfits in a desperate attempt to gain attention
from men.
It’s the same cycle every year at every college across the
globe. Washington Central University just happens to be
where I’m condemned to attend. I like it enough; it’s easy, and
my professors cut me a lot of slack. Despite my lack of giving
an actual fuck, I’m pretty decent academically. If I “applied
myself more,” I could be even better, but I don’t have the time
or the energy to waste obsessing over grades or plans or
anything that could be obsessed over. I’m not as stupid as the
professors always assume I’ll be. I can miss an entire week of
class and still ace an exam. I’ve learned that as long as I can
do that, they’ll leave me be.
The front of the Student Union is the prime location for the
show. Sitting here watching all the parents in tears has to be
my favorite part. It’s amusing to me because my mum couldn’t
seem to get rid of me quick enough, and some of the parents
here act like their damn arms are getting cut off when their
children—adult children, might I remind you—are off to
college. They should be happy, not sobbing like annoying
children, that their kids are actually doing something with their
lives. If they took a walk around my old neighborhood, they
would kiss the ground of Washington Central University for
giving their child a chance in the world.
A woman with huge fake tits and bleached hair hugs her
puny, plaid-shirt-wearing son, and I’m full on grinning as he
starts to cry into his mum’s shoulder. Fucking pussy. His dad is
standing back, away from the pathetic sight, checking his
expensive watch, waiting for his son and wife to stop their
blubbering.
I can’t imagine how that would feel, having my parents
obsess over me. My mum cared enough, when she wasn’t
working from sunup to sundown, leaving me to fend for
myself as she made up for my shitbag father’s lack of common
sense. She tried to make up for it the best she could, but one
can only do so much when so much has already been lost. And
I fought her help. Every step of the way. I wouldn’t accept it
then and still won’t accept it now. Not from her, not from
anyone.
“Hey, man.” Nate sits down across from me at the picnic
table and pulls a cigarette from his pocket. “What’s the plan
for the night?” he asks as his fingers flick over the lighter.
I shrug and pull my phone from my pocket to check the
time. “I don’t know; we’re meeting Steph in her room.”
As he smokes, Nate annoys me into agreeing to walk to
Steph’s dorm from the Student Union. It’s not a far walk,
fifteen minutes or so, but I’d much rather drive than push
through the masses of eager pupils decked out in their college
best.
By the time we reach the dorms, Nate is going on about the
party this weekend. It’s always the same every single
weekend. What’s there to be excited about?
Everything is always the same for me. Same group of
friends, same amount of sex, same parties, same old shit,
different day.
I’m about to barge into the room when Nate reminds me,
“We should knock. Remember how pissed she was last time?”
I laugh to myself. Yeah, I do remember that day. It was last
semester, and I walked into Steph’s dorm room without
knocking. I found her on her knees in front of some asshole. I
call him an asshole because . . . well, because he was wearing
flip-flops. A man-child in flip-flops is automatically an asshole
in my book. He was embarrassed, and Steph was pissed. As he
snuck out, she threw just about every item she owned in the
direction of my head.
It made my entire week to see her so horrified. To this day,
I give her shit about it.
I finally stop laughing at the memory when I hear her yell
for us to come inside.
And when I do, I’m greeted by the sight of a blond guy in a
cardigan standing in the middle of Steph’s room. Steph is
standing between Nate and me, looking at the newcomers with
amusement dancing in her eyes. It takes me a moment to
notice a tense-looking woman and younger girl with them. The
woman is hot . . . my eyes take her body in: tall frame, long
blond hair, decent tits.
“Hey, you Steph’s roomie?” Nate says, and I finally get a
good look at the girl.
She’s decent enough: pouty lips, long blond hair. That’s
about all I can tell, because the chick is wearing clothes that
are three times her size. I notice the way her skirt literally
touches the floor, and cringe inwardly. Just from a glance, I
can tell college is not going to be fun for this girl.
Case in point: she’s staring down at her feet, nervous as
hell. What’s wrong with her?
“Um . . . yes. My name is Tessa,” she mumbles. Her voice
is quiet, obnoxiously so.
I look over at Steph, who smiles a slick smile and sits down
on her bed, never taking her eyes off the girl.
Nate responds with a smile, always the friendlier of the two
of us. “I’m Nate. Don’t look so nervous.”
I don’t see the point in small talk, especially with this little
mouse. She’s staring at Nate wide-eyed, and he reaches out to
touch her shoulder.
“You’ll love it here,” he adds.
He’s full of shit.
Steph’s roommate looks terrified as her eyes rake over the
band posters hanging on the wall. This girl couldn’t have been
a worse match for her. She’s quiet, timid, scared of the world,
apparently. She’s lucky I’m feeling nice today; otherwise I
would have made her even more uncomfortable.
“I’m ready, guys,” Steph says, popping up from the bed.
She pushes her purse thing up onto her shoulder and walks
toward the door. The blond boy—likely her roommate’s
brother—is staring at me, and I glare in his direction.
“See you around, Tessa.” Nate waves goodbye to the girl,
and I notice her staring at me. Her eyes move from my
eyebrow ring to the loop in my lip and back and forth between
both of my arms. Then I notice the woman and that dude are
doing the same thing.
What? You all’ve never seen tattoos before? I want to ask,
but I get the feeling her mum isn’t as nice as the rack she
sports, so I may as well behave. For now.
The moment we step into the hallway, we hear the woman
shriek, “You’re getting a new dorm!”
Steph bursts into laughter, and Nate and I join in as we
walk down the hall.
three
The next morning I don’t feel like going to my first class, so I
head to Steph’s room instead. She’s probably still asleep, but
I’m bored and her dorm is closer to my next class than anyone
else’s in the crew. I text her and tell her I’m on way, but I don’t
wait for her reply.
The hallway of the old building is nearly empty, only a few
frantic stragglers rushing by with their arms full of books. I
knock, so as not to give Miss Prim a heart attack, and, hearing
no reply, let myself in with the key Steph has given me.
To keep myself from falling asleep on Steph’s shitty
mattress, I flip through the basic cable channels. Just as some
stuffy “doctor” is giving marriage advice to two idiots, the
door opens and Steph’s roommate rushes in. She’s wrapped in
a wet towel, and her long, soaked hair is stuck to her face in an
almost comical way. As her eyes widen with surprise, I turn
the TV off and stare at the specimen before me.
“Um . . . Where is Steph?” she practically squeaks. She
stares down at the floor, back to me, to the floor again.
I smile at her embarrassment and stay silent.
“Did you hear me? I asked you where Steph is.” Her voice
is softer now, more polite.
My smile grows. “I don’t know.”
She’s squirming, and I suspect that with how hard she’s
gripping the edges of her towel, she’ll shred the material. I
turn the TV back on and sit up.
“Okay? Well, could you like . . . leave or something, so I
can get dressed?”
Well, I’m not going to leave. Not when I just found the only
comfortable position on this bed.
I roll over and cover my face with my hands to humor her.
“Don’t flatter yourself—it’s not like I am going to look at
you.”
She’s awfully full of herself to think that I would sit and
stare at her.
Well . . . okay, I probably would, especially given that the
towel she’s wearing is hugging her body in a damn nice way.
I hear her shuffling around, the sound of a bra fastening,
and her breathing heavily. She’s nervous still, and I would love
to see her face as she tries to put her clothes on as fast as she
can. I would uncover my eyes just to annoy her, but I’m in a
decent mood. Plus, I’m only going to see this girl a few times,
so may as well keep it somewhat civil.
“Are you done yet?” I roll my eyes under my hands.
“Could you be any more disrespectful? I did nothing to
you. What is your problem?” she yells.
The fuck? I hadn’t expected such a smartass mouth on such
an innocent-looking girl. She’s trying hard to be patient with
me, and I’m trying hard to make her explode. I can’t help but
laugh.
As I stare at Steph’s pissed-off roommate, it feels odd
laughing this way, this hard, but her expression is just fucking
priceless. She’s so pissed.
The door shoots open, and Steph enters, dressed in last
night’s clothes. “Sorry I’m late. I have a hell of a hangover,”
she whines.
I roll my eyes again. Of course she has a hangover . . .
when doesn’t she?
“Sorry, Tess, I forgot to tell you Hardin would be coming
by.” She shrugs her shoulders. Like she gives a fuck.
“Your boyfriend is rude,” the blond girl snaps.
That does it for me, and I laugh again. Steph looks at me,
brow raised at how much I’m laughing.
“Hardin Scott is not my boyfriend!” she exclaims—maybe
a little too emphatically—and starts choking on laughter along
with me.
We’ve fucked around before, but never dated.
I don’t date.
“What did you say to her?” Steph turns to me and puts her
hands on her hips in a failed attempt to scold me. Then she
turns to the girl. “Hardin has a . . . a unique way of
conversing.”
Conversing? I’m not attempting to talk to either of them. I
shrug my shoulders and go back to finding some mindless shit
to watch.
“There’s a party tonight—you should come with us, Tessa,”
I hear Steph say. Yeah, right, like this chick is going to go to a
party? I pull my lip ring between my teeth to stop from
laughing again. I stare straight ahead at the TV.
“Parties aren’t really my thing. Plus I have to go get some
things for my desk and walls.”
“C’mon . . . it’s just one party! You’re in college now—just
one party won’t hurt,” Steph practically pleads, trying to
convince her. “Wait, how are you getting to the store? I
thought you didn’t have a car?”
“I was going to take the bus. And besides, I can’t go to a
party—I don’t even know anyone,” she responds. I laugh
again. “I was going to read and Skype with Noah.”
Because going to a store is so much fun. I bet she shops at
fucking Target; she seems like the type. And her Skype
date . . . I bet she’s going to show an ankle to her poor excuse
of a boyfriend.
“You don’t want to take the bus on a Saturday! They’re
way too packed. Hardin can drop you on the way to his
place . . . right, Hardin?” Steph glances at me.
I won’t be dropping anyone off anywhere.
“And you’ll know me at the party,” Steph continues. “Just
come . . . please?”
“I don’t know . . . and no, I don’t want Hardin to drive me
to the store,” the obnoxious girl whines. I shift over and smile
at the two of them; it’s all I can do, since they’re both
annoying the shit out of me.
“Oh no! I was really looking forward to hanging out with
you,” I say. “Come on, Steph, you know this girl isn’t going to
show at the party.” I take a moment to look at the way her
white T-shirt is tight across her chest and hips. She should
dress this way instead of that long-ass skirt she was wearing
the other day. Her khaki shorts are still too long, but you can’t
win ’em all.
“Actually, yeah, I’ll come,” the girl says—Tessa was her
name, I think. Yeah, it was. I hear shrieking and squealing, and
it’s my cue to leave when the girls start hugging and shit.
“Yay! We’ll have so much fun!” Steph promises the girl as
I leave the room.
I DRIVE FARTHER on to campus and sit through the rest of
my classes for the day. Afterward, I get a text from Nate to
meet him and Tristan at Blind Bob’s and head that way. I turn
the music up in my car and roll the window down. When I was
a teen, I used to think people were fucking show-offs when
they blasted music from their car windows, but now I get it.
Sometimes I just want to drown out the world around me, and
music and reading are the only things that do that for me.
Everyone has their thing, and these are mine.
When I need silence, the noise helps.
Better than a fifth of Jack, I suppose. My mum, crying on
the phone in the middle of the night, would say so.
“What took so long?” Tristan takes a bite from a
hamburger; half the toppings fall onto the plate in front of him.
“Traffic was a bitch.” I slide into the booth next to Nate.
Our usual server nods at me, and moments later she appears at
the table with a glass of water.
“Still sober, yeah?” Nate questions; his eyes carefully avoid
my glass as he takes a drink of his beer.
“Yep. Still sober.” I finish half the glass of water, trying not
to think about the way an ice-cold beer would taste on my
tongue.
“Good for you, man. I know everyone gives you shit about
it, but I think it’s pretty fucking awesome, the self-control you
have.”
At Nate’s praise, I shift awkwardly.
Tristan laughs, wiping a napkin across his chin. “Self-
control? I heard Molly screaming your name just last night.”
“Well, sober with drinking. No, no, of course not chicks.”
Nate laughs along, pushing his shoulder into mine, and I’m
thankful for the change in tone. It was getting too personal for
my liking.
Nate ends up convincing me to let him drive my car. He
only had one beer, and I don’t feel like driving really, so I
agree to let him if he drives me to pick up Steph and her
roommate.
“She’s been blowing up my phone, says you won’t answer
her,” Nate says as we pull out of the parking lot.
I roll my eyes. “I told her an hour ago that I would give
them a ride.” Steph can be really fucking annoying.
“I just told her we’re on our way. I’m glad that Tessa girl is
coming with her,” he says, and rolls down the driver’s-side
window.
“Why?”
“Because she seems nice and should definitely get out
more. Steph said she thinks her boyfriend is her only friend or
something.”
“Boyfriend? You mean Mother Theresa has a boyfriend?” I
scoff. Wait, the blond guy in the dorm? They look like
siblings, not boyfriend and girlfriend. Is that who she’s
Skyping with? Definitely a fully clothed video, then—with an
added blazer, probably, for protection.
“Yeah, he was there with her, that preppy dude.”
“Go figure.” I laugh and turn up the music. Tess and her
stuck-up Gap-model boyfriend would hate this music. I turn it
up even louder.
When we pull into the parking lot of Steph’s dorm, my
phone buzzes. It’s Molly’s name, so I hit ignore.
“Ladies.” Nate greets the girls as they walk up to the car.
Steph is dressed in a fishnet dress, and her tagalong is wearing
what looks like a maroon sack. I don’t get it. I saw the outline
of her body in that towel—why does she wear this hideous
shit?
“You do know that we’re going to a party, not a church—
right, Theresa?” I say as she climbs into the car.
“Please don’t call me Theresa. I prefer Tessa,” she says
succinctly. Snobbily.
I knew her name would be Theresa. I’ve read enough
novels to put that together. I seem to have struck a chord with
this one.
“Sure thing, Theresa,” I taunt her. As we drive, I glance in
the mirror a few times to look at her. She doesn’t appear
annoyed when she doesn’t know my eyes are on her. The
house is close; we only have to sit through a few minutes of
awkward silence until we arrive. Nate parks in front of the
house behind a line of cars.
She huffs and rolls her eyes. “It’s so big—how many
people will be here?” Theresa asks. Doesn’t the full lawn give
that away?
“A full house. Hurry up,” I tell her, shutting the car door.
She just sits there, in shock, I think, and I walk up the yard.
four
He knew from early on, from their first encounter to the first
time she used that smart mouth against him, that he felt
something different when it came to her. He wasn’t sure . . .
no, he had no fucking idea that the fire inside of her would
weaken, then be extinguished by his habit of making mistake
after mistake, but often he finds himself sitting alone, reliving
the days when she was on fire. When her voice and her actions
were filled with so much passion that the air between them
would fill with smoke. He should have known that that much
passion would lead to destruction, to the burning of her soul,
and make every ounce of her spirit disintegrate, taking the girl
he loved, the girl that he couldn’t and still can’t breathe
without, and he would have to watch her drift away, with the
last few clouds of gray smoke.
I walk through the crowded party, pushing my way through a
group of wasted assholes playing some sort of drinking game
to occupy their time while trying desperately to fit in. Their
bloodshot eyes and stupid grins make me nauseous as I pass
them. One by one they give me the same “he’s an asshole”
look¸ while tossing plastic balls into beer-filled cups and
cheering as if they’ve won some sort of medal for being
completely brainwashed into drinking the cheapest beer from
shared cups.
When I get to the crowded hallway, I spot Steph and her
tagalong. The blond girl looks clueless, completely out of
place in the swarm of moving bodies. A drink is pushed into
her hand, and she smiles politely, despite the fact that she
doesn’t want it. I can tell by the look in her eyes. She takes it,
though, bringing the red cup to her mouth.
Another follower. Surprise, surprise.
“Helloooo, Earth to Hardin!” Molly’s voice cuts through
the noise. I glance down at her, noting the annoyed expression
on her face while she rests her hand on her hip. Her eyes are
on Tessa and Steph.
“What were you staring at?” she asks, voice tight.
“Nothing. Mind your damn business.” I continue on, up the
stairs and toward my room. Behind me I hear tacky and
excessive jewelry clanging in the most annoying way. I turn
back to Molly and her puppy-dog eyes. “Are you following me
for a reason?”
She flips her pink hair from her shoulder. “I’m bored,” she
complains.
“And . . . ?” I pull my phone from my back pocket and
pretend to be doing anything but listening to her.
Molly runs her hand down my arm. “Entertain me,
asshole.”
I look her up and down, enjoying the way her tiny dress
shows off all the things I’ve already seen. Her nails push into
my skin, and her smile grows.
“Come on, Hardin, when was the last time you got off?”
She has no shame. I like it.
“Well, considering you blew me two days ago . . .”
Her lips are on mine before I can get another word out. I
pull back, she pushes forward.
Ah, may as well. She’s not half bad, and there are worse
things I could be doing with my time. Like Steph, hanging out
with Goody Theresa all night. That would put anyone to sleep.
Molly leads me to the farthest bedroom on the right; she
already knows better than to try to go into my room. No one
comes into my room. The door closes behind her, and she’s on
me within seconds. Her mouth is hot, her lips painted with
sticky gloss.
The act of touching, be it with Molly or someone else,
gives me an escape. Doesn’t make much sense to me, but
when my mind is turned off for a while, it’s easier. It’s a rush,
the only time I really feel much of anything.
Molly leads me to the bed, an empty one without so much
as a sheet on the damned thing. These small details don’t make
a difference when you don’t feel any of it. Molly lays her
small body on mine, grinding herself against my leg. I wrap
her pink hair around my fist, pulling her mouth off of mine
“No,” I warn her. She groans, whining like she usually does
when I remind her not to kiss me.
“You’re such an asshole,” she complains, but shifts to
straddle my waist.
The door clicks open, and she stops moving her hips.
Turning around, she sits up, and I lean up on my elbows.
“Can I help you?” Molly’s tone is harsh with impatience
and need.
And of course—of course—standing in the doorway is
Tessa, Steph’s roommate, with a look on her face that tells me
she’s more embarrassed than Molly and I put together.
“Oh . . . no. Sorry,” she stammers. “No, sorry, I was looking
for a bathroom; someone spilled a drink on me.” She frowns
down at her soiled dress as if it was evidence. This girl spends
a lot of time looking down, it seems.
“Okay? So go find a bathroom,” Molly mocks with a flip of
her hand. “Go find a bathroom.”
Tessa leaves the room immediately and closes the door.
Still, as Molly starts in on my neck, I can see the shadow of
Tessa’s feet under the doorway. Is she listening to us? How
fucking weird. A few seconds later she disappears and Molly
reaches her hand down between my legs.
“God, that girl irritates me,” she complains.
For someone who isn’t very well liked herself, Molly sure
has a lot of people who “irritate” her.
“Should I have asked her to join us?” I shrug my shoulders,
and Molly grimaces.
“Ew. No way. Bianca or Steph, maybe, but that Tessa dud,
no way. She’s not even hot, and she’s twice my size nearly.”
“You’re a bitch, you know that?” I shake my head at her.
Tessa, plain and all, has a nice body—the kind of body that
men love, the kind of body that I would devour in a heartbeat
if she could learn to tame that attitude of hers.
“Whatever. It’s just her tits that you like.” Molly’s mouth
latches on to my neck.
“I don’t like her,” I say, feeling the need to defend myself.
“Well, obviously you don’t like her.” Molly draws back to
look at my eyes. She smiles like we’re in on a secret together
or something. “That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t fuck her.”
Her mouth catches my jaw, nipping at the skin there. Her
hands grip me, one over my cock, and she continues to move
her small body over mine.
“No more talking.” I reach down between her parted thighs
and run my fingers over her. She groans against my neck, and
I focus on the pleasure she’s providing me. Molly is more like
me than she would ever admit. She, too, finds her days bleak
and unexciting. She, too, uses sensation to escape her own
head. I don’t know much about her really, and she’ll never
share, but I can tell it was rough.
Molly’s body shakes as I pump my fingers into her,
knowing by now how to get her off quickly. Just as she moans,
I catch the sound of “Lou,” but she quickly recovers and says
my name.
Lou? What the fuck? I try not to laugh at the thought of her
talking about Logan, saying his nickname while I pleasure her.
She knows better than to think he would give her the time of
day. He’s nice enough to her—simply because he’s a nice guy
—but the guy has standards.
If I cared, I would call her out on it, but I simply don’t give
a fuck. I use her and she uses me—we both know this. My
mind wanders to the party downstairs. I wonder how many
times Steph’s roommate has cried so far. She’s quite the
emotional one, with her ranting and sassy attitude that belies a
frailty.
Molly’s hands tug at my jeans, unfastening the button, and I
close my eyes as her warm lips wrap around my cock.
Afterward, she doesn’t say a word, and neither do I, when
she wipes her fingers across her swollen lips. Molly stands,
pulling her dress down to cover her body as much as the scrap
can, and she leaves the room.
I lie there, on a bed that isn’t mine, and stare at the ceiling
for a few minutes more before wandering out into the hallway.
The party is still going; the floors are getting messier and
messier by the minute. A group of three drunk girls holding
hands walks by.
“You guys are my best friends,” the shortest of the three
says.
One of them is wearing a blue sweater, her eyes bloodshot
as she stumbles down the hall, nearly tripping over her feet. “I
love you both!” she replies, her eyes filling with tears.
Drunk girls are there, crying and being “best friends” with
everyone . . .
Logan appears at the end of the hall, a crooked smile on his
face and a drink in each hand. He offers me one, but I shake
my head.
“Yours is water,” he says, holding the red cup between us.
I grab it, bringing it to my nose to smell the liquid. “Erm,
thanks.” I take a drink of the cold water and ignore the way
Logan is silently judging me for drinking water.
“The house is packed, man,” he says to me, clearing his
throat with a grimace. “This cheap vodka burns like a bitch.”
I don’t say anything, I just let my eyes roam around the hall
as we walk toward the stairs.
“Oh, hey, I saw that Tessa chick go into your room,” he
says from behind me. I turn to face him.
“What?”
“She went in there, with Steph. Steph’s sick, puking in the
bathroom.”
“Why would they go into my room?” I raise my voice. I
could have sworn I locked it. No one goes into my room. Sick
or not. They especially don’t go in there to throw up on my
things.
He shrugs. “Don’t know. Just warning you.”
Logan disappears into the crowd as I head toward my room.
Steph knows better than to go into my room—why didn’t she
warn her little tagalong?
I enter in a huff, and sure enough, standing next to my
bookshelf is Tessa. I immediately notice that her hand is on
my oldest copy of Wuthering Heights. The worn pages show
its use to me.
“Why the hell are you in my room?” I say to her. She
doesn’t even flinch. She gently closes the book in her hands.
“I asked you what the hell you are doing in my room?” I
repeat, just as harsh as the first time. I cross the room take the
book from her and toss it back onto the shelf where it belongs.
She still hasn’t answered me; she’s standing there, near my
bed, with wide eyes and a closed mouth.
“Nate told me to bring Steph in here . . .” she whispers. She
waves her hand in the direction of my bed. Steph is passed out
on the mattress, and I’m not happy about that one bit. “She
drank too much, and Nate said—”
I’ve heard enough.
“I heard you the first time,” I calmly interrupt her.
“You’re a part of this fraternity?” she asks, her voice
curious and a tad bit judgmental. Not that I’m in any way
surprised by this. I’m used to being judged, especially around
rich kids with haughty attitudes. I don’t think this girl is rich,
though. Her dress looks like it came from a consignment store
instead of a department store, which surprises me, for some
reason.
“Yeah, so?” I step toward the nosy girl, and she backs away,
hitting the bookcase in the process. “Does that surprise you,
Theresa?”
“Stop calling me Theresa,” she snaps at me.
Feisty.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?”
Sighing, she turns away from me. I glance over at my bed
as she attempts to leave the room.
“She can’t stay in here,” I say to her. No way is Steph
sleeping in my bed all night.
“Why not? I thought you guys were friends?”
How sweet . . . how naive.
“We are, but no one stays in my room.” I cross my arms
over my chest and get a good look at her. Her eyes are
following the tattoos inked onto my arms. I like the way she’s
looking at me, trying to figure me out. It’s exciting, even—to
be examined in this way . . . she’s intrigued, and it’s obvious.
She seems to snap out of her staring fit.
“Ohh . . . I see.” She snorts. “So only girls who make out
with you can come into your room?”
I can’t help but smile at the little feisty freshman. Long
blond hair and killer curves hidden underneath that hideous
outfit . . . but something about this girl irritates me on a deeper
level than Steph does, or even Molly. I can’t put my finger on
it, but she’s getting under my skin pretty quickly and I need to
put a stop to that.
“That wasn’t my room. But if you’re trying to say you want
to make out with me, sorry, you’re not my type.”
I smile and watch her face twist into embarrassment and
anger.
“You are . . . you are . . .”
I feel uncomfortable as she fights to find the insulting
words.
“Well . . . then you take her to another room, and I’ll find a
way back to the dorms.”
Me? She’s so sure of herself it’s pissing me off more and
more by the second.
She wouldn’t actually leave Steph in here. Would she? She
opens the door and walks through it.
Damn, she has more balls than I thought. I’m slightly
impressed. Annoyed—but impressed.
“Good night, Theresa!” I yell to her as she slams my
bedroom door.
I take a visual sweep of the room, seeing what else has
might have been disturbed. The mirror on my wall catches my
attention, mainly because the man standing in it is barely
recognizable. I don’t know who I’ve become in the last few
years.
But more surprisingly, I don’t understand where the stupid
smile now on my face has come from.
I’m used to bickering with obnoxious people during these
parties. Why did I enjoy this so much more than usual? Is it
because of this new girl? She’s not my usual prey, but she’s
fun to toy with.
The noise from downstairs fills my room, and with Steph in
my bed, I have nothing to do. I will have to get Nate to carry
her out of here—and drop her in the hallway, if need be.
Surely she’s slept in worse places. I find myself thinking about
Tessa and her attitude. The way she stubbornly placed her
hand on her hip and wouldn’t back down from me.
I walk out into the hallway and convince some frat newbie
to move Steph’s body to an empty room down the hall. I watch
a moment to make sure he doesn’t stay in there with her, and
when he pops out of the room, I head back toward my own.
Passing the bathroom, I hear a frantic voice through the
door. It’s that Tessa girl—I know her voice immediately.
“Yeah . . . no . . . I went to a stupid party with my
roommate, and now I’m stuck at a frat house with nowhere to
sleep and no way to get back to my room.”
She’s full-on crying now. I should just walk away from the
door. I don’t have the energy or remote interest in dealing with
a crying, overly sensitive girl.
“But she . . .”
I can’t make out her words between her sobs. I press my ear
to the door.
“That isn’t the point, Noah,” I hear her say.
I try to open the door. I’m not even sure why I do, so it’s
probably fortunate that it’s locked.
“Just a minute,” she says loudly, losing patience.
I knock again.
“I said just a minute!”
She yanks the door open, and her eyes grow wide when she
sees me. I look away as she storms past me. I reach for her
arm, gently stopping her.
“Don’t touch me!” she yells, and jerks away.
“Have you been crying?” I ask, even though I already know
the answer.
“Just leave me alone, Hardin,” she says, no conviction in
her tone. She sounds so exhausted. Who was she talking to on
the phone? Her boyfriend?
I open my mouth to tease her, but she holds a finger up.
“Hardin, please. I’m begging you, if you have one decent bone
in your body, you will leave me be. Just save whatever mean
comment you’re going to say for tomorrow. Please.” Her blue-
gray eyes are shining with tears, and the rude remark I had
planned suddenly lost its spark.
“There’s a room down the hall you can sleep in. It’s where I
put Steph,” I tell her. She stares at me like I’ve grown three
heads.
“Okay,” she simply says after a moment.
“It’s the third door on the left.” I walk toward my room. I
feel an overwhelming urge to get away from this girl, and fast.
“Good night, Theresa,” I say, and step into my room. I
close the door and lean against the back of it.
I feel dizzy. I don’t feel right. Logan better not have tricked
me and slipped some shit in my water.
I walk to the bookshelf and grab Wuthering Heights,
opening to the middle of the novel. Catherine is the most
infuriating female character I’ve ever read, and I cannot for the
life of me understand why Heathcliff puts up with her shit.
He’s an asshole, too, but she’s the worst.
IT TAKES ME A WHILE to fall asleep, but when I do, I find
myself dreaming about Catherine, or rather a young blond
version of her, stumbling into college. But the sound of my
mother’s screams wakes me, and I bolt upright, sweat soaking
through my shirt, and turn on the light.
When will this shit end? It’s been years and it won’t go
away.
After a few more fitful hours of staring at the ceiling and
walls and trying to convince myself I must’ve slept in all that
time, I take a shower and walk down to the kitchen. Grabbing
a trash bag, I decide to help clean up, for once. Maybe if I do
some nice shit for people, I’ll get a full night’s sleep sometime.
In the kitchen, I find Tessa, still here, laughing and leaning
against the counter.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, sweeping a bunch of empty cups
off the counter and into my bag.
“Nothing . . . does Nate live here, too?” she asks me.
I ignore her.
Her soft voice gains some volume: “Does he? The sooner
you tell me if Nate lives here, the sooner I can leave.”
“Now you have my attention.” I take a step toward her to
clean a pile of soaking paper towels off the counter. I smile at
the annoyed girl. “But no, he doesn’t live here. Does he seem
like a frat boy to you?”
“No, but neither do you,” she scoffs.
I don’t respond. Damn it, this house is a fucking disaster.
“Is there a bus that runs close to here?” She taps her foot
against the floor like a child, and I roll my eyes.
“Yep, about a block away.”
“Could you tell me where it is?”
“Sure. It’s about a block away.”
Something about her quick annoyance makes me smile.
She turns on her flat shoes and walks away in a hurry. I
laugh to myself and ignore the way Logan is smirking at me
from across the kitchen. I walk toward him but change my
direction as I watch Tessa approach Steph.
“We aren’t taking the bus. One of those assholes will take
us back to our room. He was probably just giving you a hard
time,” I hear Steph say. She enters the kitchen, looking like
Hurricane Katrina. Her dark makeup is smeared around her
eyes. I glance at Tessa, who is barely wearing any, and note
the difference. “Hardin, you ready to take us back now? My
head is pounding.”
“Yeah, sure, just give me a minute.” I drop the bag of trash
onto the floor and laugh to myself when I hear Tessa scoff. It’s
so easy to get under this girl’s skin.
Tessa and Steph meet me by my car, and I can’t help but
choose one of my favorite metal songs, “War Pigs,” during the
drive back to campus. I roll all the windows down and enjoy
the breeze.
“Can you roll those up?” Tessa asks from the backseat.
I glance in the rearview mirror and pull my lip ring between
my teeth to keep from laughing at the way her blond hair is
whipping around her face. I pretend not to hear her and turn
the volume up on the stereo.
When the joyride is done and they’re climbing out of the
car, I say, “I’ll come by later, Steph.” I can see her panties
through her outfit, but I’m pretty sure that’s the point of her
wearing fishnet stockings.
“Bye, Theresa.” I smile, and she rolls her eyes. I find
myself laughing as I drive away.
five
He woke up one night, months after he’d met her. He rolled
over to find her cradled against him, her legs wrapped around
his. He had never felt anything like this before, his pain felt so
diminished but his heart and mind so electric at the same time
—and he had no experience of anything of this sort. He
wanted to wake her, he wanted to confess his sins to his angel
that night, but she woke at the exact moment he was going to
ask for forgiveness . . . and he didn’t have the strength.
He was a coward and a liar and he knew it. He could only
hope that she would have mercy on him. Her eyes fluttered
and searched for him, and he felt a crushing weight on him. He
couldn’t ruin who she thought he was, but he was terrified of
their future, for he learned as a child that every lie made in the
dark becomes an evil truth in the light.
The sounds of laughing and a dog barking wake me from my
three-hour sleep. I never get much sleep anyway, but I would
appreciate a little peace in the hallways, considering it’s a
Monday morning and I have class in . . . I reach for my phone
and check the time.
8:43.
Fuck.
I have less than thirty minutes to get to my Literature class
—and why the hell is there a dog in the house, anyway?
Grabbing last night’s black jeans from the floor, I pull them
on, stumbling slightly and cursing at the tight fabric. My legs
are just too damn long to wear baggy jeans without looking
like fucking Gumby. I tossed my keys onto the floor last night,
so I’m subjected to the ordeal of rummaging through the
clutter of shit to find them. Black T-shirts, dirty black jeans,
and filthy socks crowd the floor.
I make my way through the house, ignoring the telltale
signs of last night’s party. Logan waves to me, bags under his
eyes and an energy drink in his hand.
“I feel like shit, man,” he groans, trying to smile. He’s
always smiling, and I catch myself wondering what that would
feel like. To be happy all the time like he is. Even this
hungover. I never managed it.
“You’ve got the right idea, not drinking.” He walks over to
the fridge. He pulls out a half gallon of milk and drinks it
straight from the container.
“Nice.” I shake my head at him, and he smiles, then drinks
some more. The kitchen starts to fill up with other members of
the fraternity, and since I’m not in their clique, I grab a piece
of pizza from the detritus of last night’s drunken decision to
order ten pizzas at 4 a.m.
As I’m leaving the room, I hear Neil asking everyone if
they want to go to some restaurant tonight before the party. I
didn’t expect them to invite me . . . they never do. It’s not that
I would ever be caught dead hanging out with a bunch of
dumb-ass frat boys with too much gel in their hair outside of a
party or two.
My mum’s always giving me a hard time about “making
friends,” but she doesn’t get it. It’s not that fucking easy, or
remotely entertaining. Why would I put myself out there to get
the approval of people I can’t stand, just to feel slightly more
important in life? I don’t need friends. I have a small group of
people I can slightly tolerate, and that’s more than enough for
me.
By the time I get to campus, the parking lot is almost full
and I have to cut off some douchebag in a Beamer to take his
spot.
The professor is already blabbing when I enter the lecture
room. Looking around the space, I search for an empty seat
and notice the girl in the front row. Her long blond hair is
mildly recognizable; it’s the long skirt touching the floor that
confirms it. Tessa, Steph’s prudish roommate.
Sitting next to Landon Gibson. Of course she is. This
should be fun: Tessa trapped in a classroom with me, an empty
seat next to her. This has quickly become the highlight of my
day.
As I get closer, she looks back at me and her eyes go wide.
She turns around quickly, and I move quickly to sit next to her.
Just like I knew she would, she ignores me. She’s wearing a
blue button-up shirt that has to be at least two sizes too big,
and her hair is pinned back away from her face.
Just as I approach them, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
A text from my sperm donor: Karen’s making a nice dinner, you
should come by.
Has he lost his damn mind? I look over at Landon, who
happens to be Karen’s perfect son, all fresh in his polo shirt.
Hell no, I’m not going. Like I would ever, ever go to his
shiny new house for dinner with his girlfriend and Landon.
Perfect little Landon, who loves sports and kisses everyone’s
ass to be the nicest, most respectful boy in the land.
Bleh.
I wait for dear “brother” Landon to say something to me,
but he doesn’t. So much for my dad’s promise of “blending
our family.” Fucker.
“I think this will be my favorite class,” Tessa says to him
once the professor has dismissed us.
Weirdly, it may be my favorite, too, even though I’m sitting
in the class for fun, really. I got away with classifying it as an
elective even though I’ve taken it before.
She turns to me when she realizes that I’m following them.
“What do you want, Hardin?”
It’s already working.
I smile at her, an innocent smile, as if I’m not trying to get
under her skin. “Nothing. Nothing. I’m just so glad we have a
class together.” My tone is mocking, and she rewards my
sarcasm with an eye roll. I continue to stare her way the entire
duration of the class, getting a rush each time she huffs or
fidgets uncomfortably. She’s so easy to rile up—I love it. The
hour is over before I would like it to be, and Tessa starts
packing her bag up before the professor dismisses us. Not so
fast.
I jump to my feet, ready to follow her and Landon out of
the building. I’m not ready for my fun to end just yet. When
we reach the hallway, Landon turns to Tessa. She looks
nervous having both of us standing in front of her.
“I’ll see you later, Tessa,” Landon says without a word to
me.
“You would find the lamest kid in class to befriend,” I tease
her as he disappears into the crowd of freshmen trying to find
their way around campus.
I picture Landon’s mum and my dad holding hands in a
cheery, “look at how much we love each other” way. His
mum’s hand holding that of my father, Ken Scott, aka Father
of the Fucking Year, makes me cringe. I can’t remember a
single time when he held my mum’s hand like that.
“Don’t say that about him; he’s a sweet guy. Unlike you,”
she snaps.
I turn to her, surprised by her vehement loyalty to him.
Does she know him already? Does he know her? Does she like
him?
Why the fuck would I care?
Pushing the questions far from my mind, I have an electric
urge to push her buttons more. “You’re becoming more feisty
with each chat we have, Theresa.”
She begins to walk faster to get away from me, so I speed
up to match her pace.
“If you call me Theresa one more time . . .” Her full lips
purse together, and she attempts a glare at me. But her eyes
warm mid-glare, shifting from gray into a pale blue and the
tension slips from my shoulders. I feel it, something creeping
up my spine as my body starts to relax.
I shake it off, this weird feeling. She’s still staring. I
changed my mind; I thought I liked how she stared at me
before, trying to decipher me, but now I can feel her judgment
crawling over my skin. Now she’s looking at my inked arms
the way my gran does. I don’t need her questioning me and my
fucking choices.
“Stop staring at me!” I demand, and walk away. I turn the
corner and feel breathless. It reminds me of those nights when
I’d smoke just way too many cigarettes. I don’t smoke
anymore, I don’t do that anymore, I have to remind myself,
and lean against the brick wall and catch my breath.
She’s odd, that blond girl with too much attitude.
THE ENTIRE WEEK was shit. Party after party, noise after
noise. All the sounds of misery.
At most I’ve slept a total of twenty hours in the past week,
and I’m exhausted today. I can barely see straight through my
throbbing headache, and I can’t find my keys this morning.
I’m irritated as fuck and in a fighting mood.
While I’m turning my room upside down, there’s a knock at
the door. I consider ignoring it, but the knock comes again,
this time louder.
When I answer, a girl in a WCU jersey is standing in my
doorway, her eyes red and her cheeks flushed.
“Can I come in?” she asks, her hands shaking.
“No. Sorry.” I close the door in her face. Seconds later
another knock. Damn it. I don’t know who the chick is, but she
needs to find another door to knock on. She continues tapping
away at my door, and I yank it open.
Neil, one of the biggest of the douchebags in the fraternity,
is standing there. His blond hair is ruffled, messy, and he
smells like beer and pussy.
“What the fuck do you want?” I ask him, and walk back
into the room, tossing a pair of jeans at him.
“Have you s-seen Cady?” His tone is off, his words slurred.
“Who?”
“The girl I was with last night? Have you seen her?”
I think back to the red eyes of the girl in the jersey, the way
she was wandering the halls, and I shake my head. I thought
she was high at first, and maybe she was, but it never does
well to assume.
“She left and she’s not coming back. Leave her alone.” I
grab a book from my shelf and throw it at him.
Groaning, he calls me a dick and leaves.
I’m still pissed as I drive back to campus, and I continue
my newly found pattern of annoying Steph’s roommate.
“I’m excited for this class. I’ve heard really good things
about it,” Landon tells her as I walk up behind them. They
must be closer friends than I thought. Her voice is quiet when
she responds to him, and he smiles at her. Her smile is warm,
so warm that I look away for a moment.
Do they like each other? She has a mannequin boyfriend.
He has a girlfriend, as far as I know. They must have broken
up, by the way he’s looking at Tessa.
Halfway through class, Landon leaves and Tessa literally
moves her chair farther away from me.
“Monday we begin our weeklong discussion of Jane
Austen’s Pride and Prejudice,” Professor Something-or-other
announces to the class. I glance over at Tessa, and she’s
smiling. Not just smiling—she’s grinning from ear to ear.
Of course she is. Chicks love Pride and Prejudice. They
can’t get enough of Darcy and his pride-turned-charm bullshit.
I watch Tessa gather her things: a massive planner and
every textbook this campus carries. I’m trying to pretend to
stall, but really, even doing that is difficult, considering just
how long it takes her to pick everything back up and put it
neatly into her bag.
Following her outside, I say, “Let me guess: you are just
madly in love with Mr. Darcy.”
I have to tease her over this. Have to.
“Every woman who has read the novel is,” she responds,
her tongue sticking out a little at the end and her eyes focused
anywhere other than my face. I follow her still and watch her
look both ways before she crosses the street at the intersection.
“Of course you do.” I laugh, pausing a moment before I
realize she’s gotten most of the way across the street without
me. Damn, she walks fast.
“I’m sure you aren’t able to comprehend Mr. Darcy’s
appeal.” Tessa tries to insult me as I catch up, but I just laugh
again.
“A man who is rude and intolerable being made into a
romantic hero? It’s ridiculous. If Elizabeth had any sense, she
would have told him to fuck off from the beginning.”
Miss Priss turns to face me, and to my surprise I hear the
soft sound of a giggle. As in, the innocent and unintentional
giggles that have seemingly disappeared from the world today.
She covers her mouth the moment the sound hits the air, but I
heard it. I heard it, as if it had pierced through me.
“So you do agree that Elizabeth is an idiot?” I press.
“No, she is one of the strongest, most complex characters
ever written.”
She defends Elizabeth Bennet in a way that most eighteen-
year-olds would never be able to, with a Tom Hanks movie
thrown in there to boot. I find myself laughing, genuinely
laughing, and she joins in. Her laugh is soft, like cotton.
What the fuck did I just . . .
I immediately stop laughing and I look away from her. This
is too damn weird.
She’s weird. And obnoxious.
“I’ll see you around, Theresa.” I dismiss her and walk the
other way.
Soft like cotton? Her giggle pierced through me? What the
fuck was that?
I push that bullshit to the back of my mind and walk to my
car. Tonight there’s another party, as always, and I’ll get my
mind away from this shit by burying myself in a tight, wet—
My phone vibrating in my pocket distracts me from my
perverted thoughts. Pulling it out, I see Jace’s name pop up on
the screen, and I quickly answer.
He’s been gone for a while, and I’ll be glad to have him
back. Everyone has that one person they hang out with who
makes them feel better about themselves. For me, that’s Jace.
He’s an asshole—grade-A fucking dickhead, ask anyone—but
he’s entertaining and he always makes for a good time.
six
The closer he got to her, the more of her he needed to explore.
When he found himself wondering what she thought of when
she woke up in the morning, or how long she takes to get
ready, he knew she was becoming something more than a
passerby in his life. Suddenly, she was more than the game he
was playing with her. In his own sick way, he was glad that he
could use the game as an excuse to spend more time with her.
He had leverage and a reason to find out everything there was
to know about her without his friends getting suspicious. He
had validation for wanting to spend as many hours with her as
he could.
In order to win, he had to, right?
Why does she have to come again?” Molly asks the small
group as she takes a drag of her cigarette.
“Because she is Steph’s roommate, and Steph likes her for
some heretofore unexplained reason, so she’s bringing the kid
along,” Nate explains.
“She’s a total bitch, though. Super fucking obnoxious.” I
groan, rubbing my head. She irritates me even when she’s not
around. Molly must like my reaction, because she leans into
me. I move away before she touches me, pretending that I
didn’t realize her intention.
I spent the afternoon fucking her, burying my cock inside of
her and thinking of someone else. I could feel the soft curves
of her hip, the full breasts. I could hear her voice saying my
name. I wrapped my hands in pink hair I imagined blond and
came hard into the condom. Molly was so proud of herself for
finally getting me off without her mouth.
If only she knew.
“She’s hot, though,” Nate adds.
Has everyone noticed how hot Tessa is by now?
“Hot? No, she’s not,” I lie through my teeth.
A tan hand swipes over neatly gelled hair. “She’s definitely
hot, dude,” Zed says with surprising certainty. “I would fuck
her in a heartbeat.”
“You wish. She’s a total prude, obviously. I mean, who’s a
virgin in college?” Molly mocks Tessa.
Nate laughs. “Right—when did you become friends with
her and she told you that?”
Molly scowls at him. “Me? I wouldn’t talk to her, but Steph
has to, and she overheard something about it when ‘Princess’
was talking to her boyfriend, it seems.”
“Maybe that’s why she’s such a bitch, because she hasn’t
been fucked properly,” I say, and move a few inches away
from Molly, hoping she won’t follow.
“I may need to do that, then,” Zed says, trying to make
everyone laugh. He fails.
“Yeah, right. You couldn’t even if you tried,” I taunt him.
“And you could? I would have a better chance than you!”
he counters.
He can’t be serious. Does he not remember his precious
Samantha?
“What did I miss?” Jace sits down on the concrete and pulls
a joint from his pocket.
“Steph has a total snob for a roommate, and Zed and Hardin
here are arguing over who could fuck her first,” Molly informs
him with a growl.
Does Zed actually think she would fuck him? I look around
the group, annoyed that everyone is thinking about her that
way. If her body is as pure as they say, I can just imagine what
the smallest touch would do to her. I would have her twitching
beneath me, begging me for more. Zed could never make her
come the way I could.
But would she let him try? If the playing field were
completely equal, would Tessa choose him over me?
“You know . . . we could make this much more interesting.
You up for it?” I turn to Zed.
Zed smiles. “Depends.”
“Hmm . . . Okay, so let’s see who can hook up with her
first.”
What’s the point of this? I ask myself the moment I say the
words.
And another part of me replies, It could be fun. At least it
will give me something to do and a reason to annoy her
further.
“I don’t know . . .” Zed’s voice is full of doubt. I figured he
would be all for beating me at something, given our past and
the unspoken grudge he holds against me.
“Come on, don’t be a pussy. It won’t be that hard. We’ll get
Steph to make sure she comes to the next party, get her to be
friendly with us,” I explain to them. “She’s young and naive—
it’ll be simple.”
I’ve done this sort of thing before—different stakes and
different prey, but a game all the same.
“This is stupid. Who gives a shit who can take some
random girl’s virginity?” Molly huffs, whining like usual.
“If you’re so convinced you can do it, I’ll give you a
week.” Jace chokes on the smoke in his lungs and passes the
joint to Molly.
“A week? Dude, she’s super bitchy and we already don’t
get along. I think I’ll need longer than that.” They don’t know
how stubborn this chick is. She’s rude and fucking pushy.
“How long? Two weeks? Look, if you get it within a
month, I’ll give you five hundred,” Zed says, leaning back
against the concrete.
“Five hundred dollars?” Molly gapes. Her fury is amusing.
She’s an attention whore, through and through, and she hates
Tessa for stealing the limelight from her.
“And I’ll add three. Eight hundred. You think you can do
it?” Jace asks with bloodshot eyes.
“Yeah, of course I can do it. I just hope she doesn’t get all
psycho and clingy,” I say, deciding whether or not to brag
about the times I’ve won games like this in the past. I decide
against it. I’m impressed by how easy it is for my signature
smirk to come back, the one that Mark, my old friend from
Hampstead, always called “the seal.” It’s the look I get when I
know I’m going to win something, or someone. Here I am,
smirking at Zed, plotting in my mind as the group waits for
someone to take me down a few pegs.
“Doubt it.” Nate laughs, lighting another cigarette.
“She isn’t going to go for you. She doesn’t seem that
stupid.” Zed glares at me.
Jace laughs, looking directly at me. “Yeah, so we need
proof when you hit it.”
Proof? That shouldn’t be too hard. I can be creative.
“What about a video? I could use some new material.” Jace
leans back, still eyeing me.
“No, no. That’s too risky,” I argue. I’ve been down that
road before and want to steer fucking clear of it from now on.
“Trust me, you’ll get your proof without all that.” I look
directly at Zed and pull out that smirk again. “I’ve never
fucked a virgin. This should be fun.”
I smile a fake smile and bring my fingers to my lip ring like
I’m trying to hide it.
Molly interjects, “Wait, how exactly are you two idiots
going to get this show on the road? It doesn’t make sense: all
of a sudden you’re both just trying to fuck her?” She flips her
hair in annoyance. “At least be fucking smart about it,” she
gripes, and holds her hand out to borrow Nate’s lighter.
“Good point,” Jace says. “How about a game?”
“A game?” Zed looks intrigued.
“Like Truth or Dare. We could ask her questions about sex,
confirm she’s a virgin so you two aren’t wasting your time to
begin with.” Jace waves his hand between Zed and me.
“Truth or Dare? You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I groan. No
one plays that bullshit anymore.
“Stupid idea.” Nate shakes his head, mock disappointment
playing on his face.
No one outside of sixth grade would ever want to play
Truth or Dare.
“Actually, it’s a good idea. Less obvious,” Steph adds.
“She’s so clueless, she’ll think it’s something people do in
college for fun. It’s just edgy enough to seem dangerous to her,
and just juvenile enough for her to understand.”
As I look around the group, everyone is nodding and
laughing. These idiots.
I shrug, giving in to their idea, but only because I don’t
have a better one.
“Truth or Dare, it is.” Jace finalizes it.
THE PARTY IS CROWDED, even more than the one last
week, and I’m sober, like always. I stayed in my room as the
music got louder and louder, then decided to come down.
As I’m wandering around the living room to find Nate, I
stop walking when I see Tessa sitting on the couch. Well, at
least I think it’s Tessa? She’s dressed differently from before.
Way differently. The intriguing blue-gray eyes stand out more
when they’re lined with makeup, and her clothes are snug on
her curvy body.
She’s fucking hot. I wouldn’t let her know that, but
goddamn, she’s fucking hot.
“You look . . . different.” I can’t stop looking at her as she
gets to her feet. Her hips—damn, those fucking hips should
have my fingertips imprinted on their skin.
“Your clothes actually fit you tonight.” The sound comes
out as a laugh, but I didn’t mean for my comment to be a joke.
She rolls her eyes at me and pulls the top of her shirt up to
cover her incredible cleavage.
“It’s a surprise to see you here,” I say to her, still checking
her out.
She sighs. “I’m a bit surprised myself that I ended up here
again.” She walks away from me without a warning, and I
hesitate for a moment, considering whether I should follow
her. I know the plan, and now that she’s dressed like this, I’m
even more ready to get the ball rolling on this shit. I decide not
to follow her, not yet. I let her get lost in the crowd for a bit.
A few minutes later, I’m leaning against the counter in the
kitchen, when Molly approaches me. “Are you ready for this
bullshit or what?” she asks.
She’s irritated and jealous of the new center of attention. I
get it. She’s used to getting attention from the opposite sex; it’s
how she feels needed.
I understand that more than anyone.
“Are you?” I raise a brow to her.
She rolls her heavily lined eyes at me. “I’ll have Steph find
her and bring her to the living room, since you obviously
aren’t going to be of any help.”
By the time I sit down, water cup in hand, Tessa is joining
the group. I feel uneasy but excited for some reason as the
game begins. I try not to think of Natalie or Melissa or any of
the others. It’s not their fault they were born into this society
right along with the scum of it, myself included.
“Let’s play Truth or Dare,” Zed starts, and our small group
of tattooed friends gather around the couch. Molly is passing
around a bottle of vodka, and I look away from it, drinking my
water as if it was burning my throat in that familiar way.
Steph; Nate; his roommate, Tristan; Zed; and Molly take
turns drinking from the bottle. Tessa watches them but doesn’t
have any. I don’t take her for an addict like me. Maybe she just
doesn’t like to drink. Even in college, at a party.
“You should play, too, Tessa.” Molly smiles at her. I know
that smile. It’s no good. I still can’t believe we’re going
through with this childish bullshit game.
“No, I’d rather not.” Tessa picks at her fingernails, and I
glance at Zed. He looks a little worried. Perhaps he’s
intimidated by the way she keeps glancing at me instead of
him.
“To actually play, she would have to stop being a prude for
five minutes,” I goad her. The group laughs—all except Steph,
who’s putting on a good show. She’s not fooling me; I know
her ass better than that.
I watch Tessa struggle with the peer pressure, ready to give
in, then I lean into Zed. “This will be easy. You may as well
pay me now,” I tell him.
Maybe this game was a good idea after all.
During the first few turns, Zed chugs a beer, Molly shows
off her nipple piercings. I get a kick out of watching Tessa’s
eyes bulge and her cheeks turn a deep red as she watches
Molly. I can’t help but imagine Tessa’s full tits, perky and soft,
decorated with small barbells.
“Truth or dare, Theresa?” Nate asks, getting this show on
the road. Finally.
“Truth?” She sounds unsure. I don’t miss that she didn’t
correct Nate when he called her Theresa, whereas every time I
do it, she acts as if she wants to chop my balls off and feed
them to her lapdog of a boyfriend.
“Of course,” I taunt. She glares at me as Nate rubs his
hands together while trying to pretend like we all haven’t
already agreed upon what he’s supposed to ask.
“Okay. Are you . . . a virgin?” Nate finally asks.
Tessa’s eyes go wide, wider than usual, and she makes a
light choking noise in the back of her throat. She’s shocked,
horrified, and offended that a stranger would ask her such a
personal question. A blush runs down her neck to her chest.
Her hands fidget, and I get the feeling she’s trying to decide
whether to curse his ass out or run from the room.
“Well?” I ask, all the while picturing her naked body under
mine. Her voice, soft and subtle, would be making noises that
no man has ever heard before. The thought is beyond fucking
intriguing, but also fucked up, since I can’t speak to the girl
without getting assaulted by her snobbish attitude.
At last, this innocent girl gives a quick, silent nod.
Every one of us is thinking about our game and how this
sweet, innocent, and crumpling naive girl just became the
main piece.
Tessa’s a virgin—she’s just admitted it to the lot of us. I
knew this to be true before she admitted it. I could tell by the
way she shivered from our conversations alone. Thinking
about being the first one to have her, to show her what she’s
been missing out on, makes my cock twitch. I imagine what’s
under her outfit. Her soft skin, full tits, her nipples hardening
under my touch. Now the game has begun, and my blood is
pumping. I’m anxious to be inside of her.
She plays with her hair from across the circle, and I
imagine that blond hair wrapped around my fist, me pulling
her closer to me as I fuck her from behind. I would slap her
round ass, hoping to leave a mark there. She would be
moaning my name through her pink, swollen lips. My name
will sound so good coming from her mouth. I adjust my pants
and watch Tessa again.
She licks her lips, and I internally groan.
I wonder how many cocks she’s had down her throat? I
wonder if she’s ever tasted a man’s come before, and as the
conversation continues, I learn that she has done next to
nothing when it comes to sex, and I intend to show her every
last fucking detail of what she’s missed.
seven
There are so many mistakes to be made in life, and he made
them all. Every ounce of respect he held for her seemed to
disappear beneath the confusion of his mind. He loved her and
cherished her more than his own breath, but he failed and
failed and failed to show it. To remember it when it counted.
He toyed with her, played immature games, and didn’t show
her his truth. This truth that he had hidden away, locked away
tightly and guarded by his upbringing, by the fact that he
couldn’t remember the number of times he was hugged and
cherished as a child. He wasn’t trying to make excuses, he was
only used to doing so. He always blamed everyone else, never
took credit for what he did or said. It was easier that way.
But eventually, he learned his lesson.
Dare.” I roll my eyes at the childish game. Like anyone
thought I would choose otherwise.
I stare at Tessa, watching Mother Theresa fumble at the
challenge of coming up with a good dare. “I . . . hmm. I dare
you to . . .” She comes up short. Everyone is waiting,
anticipating her question as she plays into our scheme.
“To what?” I push her to hurry along with this shit.
This girl, who doesn’t even know how much trouble she’s
in with this pack of jackals . . . she still sits in silence, looking
around the group in a dramatic panic. It’s only a party game,
but I can tell she’s an overachiever, even when it comes to
something this stupid. It’s entertaining to watch her worry over
something so small. She has a habit of chewing on her bottom
lip, the same way I play with my ring. Briefly I imagine her
with a ring through her lip. She would look so fucking hot.
“Take your shirt off and keep it off the entire game!” Molly
says for Tessa.
And Tessa’s cheeks flush. A pattern.
“How juvenile.” I lift my black T-shirt up over my head and
catch Tessa’s eyes on my body. She’s staring, hard, so hard
that she doesn’t even notice me catching her. Steph nudges her
with her elbow, and she looks away, cheeks red and eyes
downcast.
I’m officially winning this. Zed has no chance.
The game continues, and I sit here half dressed and watch
Tessa try and keep her eyes off of me. I can’t read her—I can’t
tell if she’s disgusted by my tattoos or intrigued by them. Her
jaw keeps twitching; she’s trying her best to sit still.
Interesting.
“Tessa, truth or dare?” Tristan asks.
I lean back on my palms. “Why even ask? We know she’ll
say truth—”
“Dare,” the stubborn girl says, surprising me with the
challenge in her voice. It’s a defiant sound, different than I
would have thought possible just a few moments ago.
“Hmm . . . Tessa, I dare you to . . . take a shot of vodka.”
Tristan smiles.
“I don’t drink.” She sticks her chin out in refusal.
I figured as much, but I’m pleased by this revelation.
Everyone around this place can’t wait for their next high; it’s
refreshing to have someone who doesn’t rely on that.
“That’s the point of the dare,” Tristan counters.
“Look, if you don’t want to do it . . .” Nate starts to tell her.
“She’s such a pussy,” Molly says into my ear.
Pussy? Because she doesn’t want to drink?
“Fine, one shot,” she says. And like that, Little Miss Oh-I-
Don’t-Do-X-Y-or-Z caves easily.
Honestly, I’m a little disappointed. Not sure why, but I
thought there was something different about her. I thought she
wasn’t like the rest of us, desperate to get the attention of our
peers.
I was wrong about her, obviously.
“Same dare,” Zed says to her, and takes a large swig before
handing vodka over. I’m annoyed by them drinking from the
same bottle; it’s disgusting, really.
As the game goes on, drink after drink, she winces and
wipes the burning liquid from her lips. Her eyes are red now,
her cheeks matching. She looks lost and off balance, even
when sitting down.
She lifts the bottle to her lips again, and I find my hand
grasping it, pulling it from her. She doesn’t try to stop me—
does she sense that she’s had enough to drink?
Does she see this as her first taste at freedom? Such a
sheltered girl, out here in the big bad world of people who
drink to numb themselves from whatever issues their shitty
parents passed on to them. Maybe hers, like mine, is neglect.
Was this girl neglected, too? I move my eyes to the neatly
pressed collar of her shirt. Nope, she sure as hell wasn’t
neglected. It’s possible that her low self-esteem is just a phase.
She wants to break free of her controlling mummy and daddy
and show herself that she can be a wild girl, too. She’s fully
capable of hanging out with the bad kids and drinking herself
sick.
The other possibility is that the lot of us are just that good
at dragging people down.
“I think you’ve had enough,” I say, and go to hand the
bottle off to Nate. But Tessa quickly grabs it at the last second
and takes another drink. The trace of a smirk covers her full
lips as she licks them clean. I watch her throat as she swallows
in a defiant gulp, and want to push her lips open and drink the
liquor from her mouth.
I shake the thought away. Molly glances at me, swirling her
finger in the air to say that I’m crazy.
Maybe I am.
“I can’t believe you’ve never been drunk before, Tessa. It’s
fun, right?” Zed asks her.
She giggles and I roll my eyes.
“Hardin, truth or dare?” Molly asks.
“Dare.” Did she have to ask? Maybe I should have done
what Tessa did, just to prove a point.
“I dare you to kiss Tessa.” Molly’s painted lips turn into a
smile, and I hear Tessa gasp.
She speaks before I can get a word in. “No, I have a
boyfriend.”
“So? It’s just a dare. Just do it,” Molly says, picking at her
nails.
“No.” Tessa’s voice rises. “I’m not kissing anyone.” She
stands and walks to the other side of the room. I take a drink of
my water and watch her disappear out the front door. She was
looking at me all night, staring at my shirtless chest, yet she
was so disgusted by the thought of kissing me that she would
throw a fit and run away?
Or is it possible that a kiss could mean more to her than just
conceding to a dare?
“There she goes, ladies and gentlemen!” Nate laughs,
leaning into me. The beer in his cup tips over the top and
splashes onto the carpet in front of him. He doesn’t bother to
clean it up. These floors have seen worse.
“You better run after her or you’ll lose,” Steph says in a
mocking voice as I slip my shirt back on.
Man, she’s always so pissy lately, I wonder what her
problem is.
“Which of you fuckers is gonna chase her?” Nate asks. I
look around the crowded room. She’s nowhere in sight. Zed is
watching me, gauging my reaction to her little tantrum. I keep
my face neutral, not expressing the slightest bit of interest as I
scan the room again. There’s no way I’m letting him be the
one to get to her first. She’s pissed because they dared her to
kiss me. This stupid-ass game wasn’t my idea anyway, and
now it’s already backfired. I fucking told them it was a bad
idea. When Logan distracts Zed, I lean up to check the
kitchen. I spot Tessa and move to get up off the floor.
“Where are you going?” Molly wraps her hand around my
arm as I stand.
“Erm, to get some more water.” I look down into my nearly
full cup, not giving a shit if she notices my ruse.
I glance around the room, passing through the crowd while
searching for Tessa’s blond hair. When I enter the kitchen,
she’s standing at the counter, a bottle of Jack in her hands. She
lifts the bottle, and I can feel the familiar ache of need in the
back of my throat.
I’m appalled that this girl would fall into such a dangerous
pattern so immediately. The way her eyes are clamped shut
and the gagging sounds she makes when she finishes . . . It
burns and makes her half sick, yet she still takes another swig.
Will she crave it? Will it make her forget things, numbing her
mind to memories, like it used to do for me? Does the girl
even have memories that she would need to be numb to? By
the looks of it, she might.
I watch her still, as she turns the faucet on, searching for a
glass. She opens the cabinet and glances toward the doorway. I
step back, out of view.
What am I doing in here? Following her around and
watching her sudden attachment to the amnesia of liquor?
I quickly turn away and go back to my group. Molly is
taunting Logan about his date last night and Nate is lighting a
cigarette when I sit back down on the dirty floor.
“Let’s get out of here. I’m bored and I can tell you are too.”
Molly’s breath is hot on my neck as she wraps her arms
around my shoulders. I shrug her off and shake my head. She
latches on again.
“I’m going upstairs,” I tell her. Her arms feel like steel,
pulling me down.
“Good idea.” She presses her lips against my neck.
From the combination of her overdrinking and my quick
movement, she falls back onto the carpet when she tries to
wrap her arms around me, and I get to my feet.
“Yikes. That was tough to watch,” Logan teases her. She
flips him off and turns to me.
“Seriously, Hardin?” she growls.
“Seriously, Molly.” I turn away from her and head up the
stairs.
As I reach the top of the staircase, my phone rings in my
front pocket. Ken’s name flashes on the screen, and I press
ignore. I’m not in the mood to deal with him. I’m usually not.
I just want to be alone, away from all this music and all these
voices. I want my shitty excuse for a father to stop trying to
“connect” with me. I want to be lost in the world of a novel
where the characters have much worse problems than me and
make me feel slightly more normal than I am.
But when I near my room, I see the door is open, cracked
just enough for me to know something is off. I always lock
that damn door; did I forget?
Inside, Tessa is sitting on my bed, one of my books in her
hand. My phone buzzes again. My anger passes from Ken to
her. She thinks she can just do whatever the fuck she wants?
She can come into my room, more than once, without my
permission?
Why is she in here? I warned her before. What’s her
problem?
I walk toward her. “What part of ‘No One Comes into My
Room’ did you not understand?”
She squares her shoulders out of surprise. “S-sorry. I . . .”
Her voice falters and her eyes grow wide, not with fear . . .
with anger. She’s trying that thing again, the one where she’s
really patient with me.
I gesture toward the door. “Get out.”
“You don’t have to be such a jerk!” she yells at me.
“You’re in my room.” The volume of my voice matches
hers as I remind her, “Again, after I told you not to be. So get
out!”
“Why don’t you like me?” she says. I can see she’s trying
to be tough, but her tone has deflated, and her big eyes have
made my pulse quicken.
eight
The question, so bold and raw, surprised him, and made him
realize he was standing at the edge of a cliff. With one blow of
the wind, he would tumble over.
Why would she ask this? Isn’t it obvious why I don’t like
her? She’s annoying as hell. She . . .
Well . . .
She’s judgmental. She’s constantly judging me and giving
me shit about my attitude when I start shit with her. And
she . . .
She’s not that bad, I guess.
“Why are you asking me this?” I ask, trying to keep my
voice calm.
She’s glaring at me. I return the favor and glare just as hard.
She thinks she can intimidate me? She’s in my room, asking
me stupid questions, looking at me like that . . .
“I don’t know . . . because I’ve been nothing but nice to you
and you’ve been nothing but rude to me. And here I actually
thought at one point we could be friends.”
Her bloodshot eyes are strong, holding so much that I don’t
know about her. Or care about.
Friends? Is she actually fucking serious? I don’t have
friends. I don’t need friends.
“Us? Friends?” I force a laugh. “Isn’t it obvious why we
can’t be friends?”
“Not to me,” she says plainly, and at first I almost think it’s
a joke. But the conviction in her voice tells me that she’s
actually serious. This girl is absolutely mad. She thinks
someone like me could be friends with someone like her?
Doesn’t she know that I can barely stand people in general, let
alone my own group of “friends”?
How shall I begin the list of reasons why this would never
work?
“Well, for starters, you’re too uptight—you probably grew
up in some perfect little model home that looks like every
other house on the block,” I begin, thinking of the black mold
covering the ceiling in my childhood bedroom. “Your parents
probably bought you everything you ever asked for, and you
never had to want for anything. With your stupid pleated
skirts . . .” I look at the outfit she’s wearing now, ignoring the
way the material rests on her full hips. “I mean, honestly, who
dresses like that at eighteen?”
Her mouth falls open and she steps toward me. I back away
without thinking. I can tell by the stormy gray of her eyes that
I’m in for it.
“You know nothing about me, you condescending jerk! My
life is nothing like that! My alcoholic dad left us when I was
ten, and my mother worked her ass off to make sure I could go
to college. I got my own job as soon as I turned sixteen to help
with bills, and I happen to like my clothes—” She waves her
hands toward her outfit, shouting now, so frustrated that her
small hands are shaking. “Sorry if I don’t dress like a slut like
all the girls around you! For someone who tries too hard to
stand out and be different, you sure are judgmental about
people who are different from you!”
And with that, she turns away from me to face the door.
Is she telling the truth? Is this perfect girl actually caught
up in the unfortunate cycle of kids having to grow up too fast?
If so, why is she smiling every time I see her?
Judgmental? She’s calling me judgmental after labeling
girls who dress a certain way sluts? She’s staring at me now,
waiting for my reaction, but I don’t have one. I’m rendered
speechless by this fiery, judgmental, intriguing woman.
“You know what? I don’t want to be friends with you
anyway,” she says before my brain pulls out of its stupor.
Tessa reaches for the door handle, and I think back to Seth,
my first friend in my life. His family had no money either, but
when one of his rich grandparents he didn’t know died, he got
a pretty penny. His ratty shoes were traded in for white ones
with lights on the bottom. I thought they were so cool. I asked
my mum for a pair once for my birthday. She gave me a sad
smile, and on the morning of my birthday, she handed me a
shoe box. I was so excited to tear the thing open, expecting
those damn light-up shoes. Inside the box was a pair of shoes,
all right, but with none of those pretty lights on the bottom. I
could tell the gift made her sad, but I didn’t quite understand
why until the months went by and I started to see Seth less and
less, until one day, the only time I got to see him was when he
walked past my house with his new friends, all wearing light-
up shoes.
He was my first and last friend, and my life has been much
more simple without friendship.
“Where are you going?” I ask Tessa, a girl who thought we
could be friends. She pauses, confused. Just like I am.
“To the bus stop so I can go back to my room and never,
ever come back here again. I am done trying to be friends with
any of you.”
I feel like a complete shit. On the one hand, having her hate
me will be better in the long run, but on the other . . . well, I
want her to like me enough to fuck me.
She can hate me after I win the Bet.
“It’s too late to take the bus alone,” I say. Looking the way
she does and the fact that she’s been drinking liquor all night,
it would be a really fucking bad idea for her to go to the bus
stop by herself.
She spins around to face me, and I realize for the first time
there are tears in her eyes. “You’re not seriously trying to act
like you care if something happened to me?” Tessa laughs,
shaking her head.
“I’m not saying I do . . . I’m just warning you. It’s a bad
idea,” I tell her. I glance at my bookshelf, comparing her to
Catherine, the main female character in the book she was
reading when I walked in. She’s a lot like her: moody and with
too much to prove. Elizabeth Bennet is the same, always
opening her mouth with some emphatic point to make. I like it.
College girls these days just seem to have lost the spunk. They
only want to please men, not themselves—and where’s the fun
in that?
“Well, Hardin, I don’t have any other options. Everyone is
drunk—including myself.” She starts to cry all over again.
I soften a little. Why is she crying? She’s always crying, it
seems.
I try to cheer her up the only way I know how . . . with
sarcasm. “Do you always cry at parties?”
“Apparently, whenever you’re at them. And since these are
the only ones I’ve ever been to . . .”
Tessa opens my door, but as she goes to leave, she stumbles
and grips the edge of my dresser.
“Theresa . . .” My voice is soft, softer than I knew it could
be. “You okay?” I ask.
She nods. She looks confused, pissed, and stunning; mostly
pissed, though.
Do I care if she’s okay? She’s sick and drunk, and there’s
no way in hell I’m going to try and score points against Zed
tonight. I don’t want to, and that would be cheating, anyway;
she’s far too drunk.
“Why don’t you just sit down for a few minutes, then you
can go to the bus stop,” I suggest. Maybe I’ll win some points
for being the nice guy.
“I thought no one was allowed in your room.” Her voice is
soft and full of curiosity as she sits on my floor. If she knew all
the shit that has been on that floor, she wouldn’t be sitting
there, I’m sure.
I find myself smiling, and the moment I realize what I’m
doing, I stop immediately. I make myself clear. She nods and
hiccups, looking as if she’s going to puke any second. “If you
throw up in my room . . .” I warn.
She’ll be cleaning that shit up, that’s for sure.
“I think I just need some water,” Tessa tells me.
I hand her my cup. “Here.”
Her hand pushes against the cup as she rolls her eyes in
annoyance. “I said water, not beer.”
“It is water. I don’t drink.”
She snorts. “Hilarious. You’re not going to sit here and
babysit, are you?”
Hell yes, I am. I’m not going to leave her alone in here to
fuck with my shit or throw up all over my books.
“You bring out the worst in me.” Her comment surprises
me out of my silence.
“That’s harsh,” I snap at her. I bring out the worst in her?
She doesn’t even know me. I continue: “And yes, I am going
to sit here and babysit you. You’re drunk for the first time in
your life, and you have a habit of touching my things when
I’m not around.”
I sit down on my bed as she cautiously takes a drink of my
water. Thought so. The room is probably beginning to spin for
her. Poor girl. I watch her carefully as she gulps down the
water. The way her eyes close and she licks her lips when
she’s finished, the way she breathes too heavily. I stare at her
without her noticing and try my damnedest not to overthink
why I’m staring at her in the first place.
There’s just so damn much that I don’t know about her, so
many things I want to know.
She seems so readable from the outside. She’s blond,
beautiful in a simple way, and I can tell by the old-fashioned
way she speaks that she spends hours and hours with her face
buried in a book. Yet her temper and the giant chip on her
shoulder make me wonder what’s underneath all that.
“Can I ask you a question?” I speak without thinking. I try
and smile at her, but I get the feeling that I look like a fucking
creep.
Her brows push together. “S-s-s-s-sure,” she says, drawing
out her answer.
What the hell am I going to ask her? I had kind of assumed
she would tell me to go to hell.
I go for the easiest question I can think of. “What do you
want to do after college?” I know that I should’ve asked
something more personal, something to help me win this game
with Zed.
Tessa seems to ponder the question, tapping her finger
against her chin before she answers. “Well, I want to be an
author or a publisher, whichever comes first.”
I could see that, easily.
I don’t tell her that I plan to do the exact same thing.
Instead, I stare blankly ahead after rolling my eyes.
“Are those your books?” Tessa waves toward my
bookshelves.
“They are,” I mumble.
“Which is your favorite?”
Fucking Christ, she’s nosy.
“I don’t play favorites,” I lie. She’s getting too personal,
and she’s been in here awhile. Her knowing my favorite books
won’t help me get what I want.
I need to turn this around, make it less personal. I need to
annoy her. “Does Mr. Rogers know you’re at a party again?”
My smirk complements her scowl. Mission accomplished.
“Mr. Rogers?”
“Your boyfriend,” I explain. “He’s the biggest tool I have
ever seen.”
“Don’t talk about him like that. He is . . . he is . . . nice.”
I can’t help but laugh at the way she fumbles for a
compliment about her loafer-wearing boyfriend.
She waves a finger at me. “You could only dream of being
as nice as he is.”
“Nice? That’s the first word that comes to your mind when
talking about your boyfriend? Nice is your ‘nice’ way of
calling him boring.” I laugh.
“You don’t know him,” she insists with admittedly
impressive fearlessness.
“Well, I know that he’s boring. I could tell by his cardigan
and loafers.” I’m laughing now, really laughing, and my
stomach tightens. I can’t help it. When I look up at her pissed-
off expression, I laugh harder, imagining the human Ken doll
whining over a hole in his cashmere sweater.
“He doesn’t wear loafers.” Tessa covers her mouth to hide
her need to laugh. I get it. I would laugh, too. She takes
another drink of my water and I keep going.
“Well, he’s been dating you for two years and hasn’t fucked
you yet. I would say he’s a square.”
As my words hit the air, Tessa spits water back into the cup.
“What the hell did you just say?”
“You heard me, Theresa.” I smile at her, fueling her anger.
“You’re an asshole, Hardin.”
Man, I love how fiery she gets when—
Cold water splashes against my face.
I gasp, surprised by her audacity. I thought we were having
fun, throwing rude comments back and forth. I was purposely
aggravating her, and it seemed that she was enjoying getting
riled up just as much as I enjoyed riling her.
By the disgusted expression on her face, it occurs to me that
maybe she doesn’t.
Why the hell did I even bring up her boyfriend in the first
place? I’m a damn idiot. She was fine, sitting in my room,
laughing with me, and I had to ruin it.
Tessa leaves my room quickly as I wipe the water from my
face and step into my doorway, watching as she takes the
staircase two steps at a time.
Back in my room, the quiet hum of my ceiling fan is my
only company. I sit down on my bed, and for the first time
since I moved into the house, I wish I wasn’t alone in this
room.
nine
The moment her lips touched his for the first time, he felt it.
He felt a shift somewhere deep inside, somewhere hidden and
covered in dust. It was completely untouched since he could
remember, likely forever. She awakened him, brought him
light and laughter and longing and he knew from the moment
her mouth found his, he would never be the same.
Tessa just threw water in my face and left my room in a storm
of huffs and puffs and eye rolls. Yet here I am, following her
down the stairs after only a few minutes of sitting in my room,
whining to myself like a little child throwing a fit over his
favorite toy breaking.
Only Tessa isn’t my favorite toy; she’s too shiny, too new
for my dirty hands to play with.
I was only trying to lighten her mood, to cheer her up, but I
obviously failed. I should have known that bringing up the
subject of her lame-ass boyfriend would be a trigger for her
temper.
She’s so annoying. She feels entitled and she’s moody.
Overly sensitive, she is, and she pisses me the fuck off. Who
throws a drink, water . . . but still . . . into someone’s face like
that? For someone who thinks so highly of themselves, she
sure does behave like a petulant child.
When I get to the bottom of the stairs, Tessa’s in the
kitchen, taking a drink from a bottle of liquor. She’s looking
around the room for someone, and as I watch her my phone
goes off in my pocket, another text from Ken: Karen’s making
dinner tonight if you want to stop by. There’s something I want to talk to you about.
You haven’t responded to my other texts, so I figured one at 3:00 am would at least
get to you when you were awake.
Something he wants to talk to me about? I have better
things to do, like show Zed who’s really the king here. I look
back to where Tessa’s standing, and notice that Zed’s joined
her.
Of course that creep is by her side the moment I’m not
around.
Tessa’s still drinking; she shouldn’t be drinking this much.
She’s going to feel like absolute shit tomorrow. Of course, this
is how Zed plans to get her.
“Look how cute they are.” I hear a voice, and glancing
over, I find Steph next to me, a wine cooler in her hand. Her
red hair is messy, falling down around her face.
I look back to Zed and Tessa, this time paying more
attention to the way she sighs while staring directly into his
eyes. She seems comfortable; her shoulders are relaxed and
her eyes are soft. Nothing like how she is around me. She
doesn’t know Zed any better than she knows me, so why the
difference? Is it because, unlike me, he leans against the
countertop with his eyes focused only on her eyes? He doesn’t
let her chest distract him. He leans into her as she smiles at
him. He’s going the good-cop-to-my-bad-cop route, it would
seem.
Damn, he’s better than I’d imagined.
Tessa looks toward the door, and Steph jumps back, pulling
my arm. I nudge her off.
Steph’s eyes are bloodshot, her pupils tiny black dots in a
sea of red. “Don’t tell her I’m here. I’m sick of babysitting
her,” she says, and rolls her eyes. Steph doesn’t even try to
place nice when Tessa’s not around. Grade-A bitch.
A drunk blonde in a skintight dress passes by, winking at
me. I remember her . . . I think?
“You brought her here,” I remind Steph, keeping my voice
light. I’m not interested in this at all. Not even sure why I
brought it up, really.
“So? I’m bored with her for tonight, and she’s for you two
to play with, remember?” She shrugs and walks away from
me.
Well . . .
“You’re going to lose if you just stand around like a creep!”
Steph shouts as reaches the front door and takes the hand of
that weird dude she was complaining about just last week.
I’m going to lose?
Please. No chance.
But I’m also not going to stand here in this doorway like a
damn creep.
I walk back into the living room and find a seat on the
couch. I’ll wait for her to come to me. She’s going to get bored
with Zed and his stupid conversation about science and plants,
saving the world one flower at a time, all that bullshit. I
suppose he believes it, maybe, but with that guy you can never
really tell either way. More likely he knows on some
subconscious level that only plants can stand to be around him.
In due course, Tessa finds her way into the living room,
Zed latched on to her side like a damn lost puppy. She doesn’t
even notice that I’m in the same room as she sits down on the
floor with my crew, only a few feet away.
I feel a squeeze on my bicep and turn just as the blonde
from a moment ago wraps her arms around my stomach,
holding me tight.
“Hardinnnn . . .” she says with such a drunk lilt that I
suddenly can’t tell if she’s trying to molest me or just keep the
room from spinning. “It’s good to see you again. Be even
better to feel you . . .”
I push her back a little, trying to disengage. But alcohol has
made her a persistent octopus, and she grabs me again. Finally,
I shift over near one of the frat “brothers” whose name I can
never remember, and wrap one of her arms around his
shoulder. Sure enough, the rest of her follows suit and she
slurs “S-Steeeve, long time no see . . .” as I sneak off, my
annoyance with the night rising with each step my boots make
across the stained carpet.
“Do the buses run all night?” I hear Tessa ask, clearly gone
past buzzed and straight into drunk now. Her voice is thicker. I
watch her lips, the bottom one popping out more than the top.
She’s speaking slowly, teetering on the line of slurring her
words.
I force myself to stop listening to her and walk back into
the kitchen. She’s not my problem—I have no reason to care if
she’s drunk or not. Less than ten seconds later, I turn the
corner and go back into the living room, my feet stopping in
front of where Tessa sits on the floor.
When she sees me, this snotty girl rolls her eyes. She seems
to do this a hell of a lot.
Not to Zed, though. Never to Zed.
“You and Zed, then?” I raise a brow at her, and she
stumbles as she gets to her feet. How much did she drink? Her
eyes are clear as they meet mine; I can’t tell.
I reach out for her arm as she pushes past. “Let go of me,
Hardin!” Her arms fly into the air, and I try not to laugh at her
dramatics. Her eyes move around the room like she’s looking
for something to throw at me. “I’m just trying to find out about
the bus.”
She pushes past me, her shoulder bumping into mine, and I
gently grab hold of her arm to steady her.
“Chill out . . . it’s three a.m. There is no bus.” I let go of her
arm and watch realization hit her. “Your newfound alcoholic
lifestyle has you stuck here again.”
The humor in this is undeniable. She’s so adamant about
hating this scene—yet here she is again, staying the night.
She stares blankly at me, all big eyes and pouty lips, and I
take a moment to pour salt onto her wounded ego.
“Unless you want to go home with Zed . . .” I nod toward
the living room, and she scowls.
Without a word, she walks off.
What’s the point of this? Me following her around, trying to
get a rise out of her? There’s no point, and really it’s a waste of
my time. She seems to play the game just as well as I do.
When I get back to my room, I grab a book from the shelf
and pull my shirt up and over my head, tossing it onto the
floor and then adding my jeans to the mess. I open the novel to
a random page and begin to read:
What use were anger and protestations against her
silly credulity? We parted that night—hostile; but next
day beheld me on the road to Wuthering Heights, by the
side of my wilful young mistress’s pony. I couldn’t bear
to witness her sorrow: to see her pale, dejected
countenance, and heavy eyes: and I yielded, in the faint
hope that Linton himself might prove, by his reception of
us, how little of the tale was founded on fact.
A blond Catherine sat there, at the edge of the moors, with
her hair tied back in a bow as red as the blood running through
his veins. She wasn’t thinking; she was lost. She turned to
him, her voice ringing through the air between them.
“Hardin?”
Catherine’s voice is loud, so loud it’s breaking through my
sleep. Am I dreaming?
“Hardin! Hardin, please open the door!”
I jump up out of my bed, confused and panicked as the
knob on my door jingles. Fists pound against the door.
“Hardin!” the voice screams again.
Is that . . . ?
I unlock the door and yank it open. Tessa’s standing there,
her face flushed in horror and her eyes wild with fear. The hair
on my neck stands, and I go into instant defense mode.
“Tess?” I wipe my eyes to gain some clarity, trying to
dispel the dream, get a focus on what’s going on.
“Hardin, please can I come in? This guy . . .” Tessa looks
back down the hallway, so I step out to see what’s she’s so
scared of.
Neil is walking toward us, his eyes bloodshot and his shirt
stained. He’s disgusting. And when he stumbles into the wall, I
see just how drunk he is.
Why is she running from him? Did he . . .
Neil’s eyes meet mine, and he stops immediately. If he
knows what’s good for him, he will turn the fuck around and
walk away. If not, Tessa and all these people in the hallway—
people who didn’t seem to want to help her—might be in for a
show.
I look back at her quickly, to make sure he didn’t do
anything to cause me to have to hide his body when the police
come.
“Do you know him?” she asks, her voice cracking.
I feel my hands shaking at my sides.
“Yeah, get inside.” I lead her into my room and I sit down
on my bed. Her gray eyes watch me intensely, and I rub my
eyes again. “Are you okay?” I ask.
She looks okay—nervous, maybe, but she’s not crying.
This is a good sign . . . I think?
“Yeah,” she says softly. “Yes. I’m sorry for coming here
and waking you up. I just didn’t know what—” Tessa’s words
come out fast and shaky.
She’s saying sorry for waking me up?
I run my hand over my hair, pushing it back from my
forehead. “Don’t worry about it.” I notice the way her hands,
like mine, are shaking, and I ask the question that’s been
raking at my mind since I opened the door. “Did he touch
you?”
Murderous ideas float through my mind. No one would
miss Neil, that’s for sure.
“No,” she starts, then hesitates. “He tried, though. I was
stupid enough to lock myself in a room with a drunk stranger,
so I suppose it’s my fault.”
Her fault? What the fuck?
“It’s not your fault that he did that. You aren’t used to this
type of . . . situation.” I try to keep my voice calm and not
frighten her further. I’ve seen this happen to a lot of girls in
my life. From my own mum, to drunk girls at parties. I had to
save Molly’s drunk ass from Neil just last year. I thought he
would have learned his lesson when I broke his nose and
dislocated his shoulder, but I guess not. He obviously needs a
refresher course. Logan will help, just like last time.
Tessa walks toward me, and I pat the empty spot next to me
on the bed. She sits down and places her hands in her lap. Her
vulnerable expression suddenly makes me realize that I’m
wearing nothing but black boxers. I want to put something else
on, but I don’t want to draw her attention to the fact, and I
don’t want her to feel more uncomfortable since she came in
here for escape, for peace.
“I have no plans on getting used to it. This really is the last
time I’m coming here—or to any parties, for that matter. I
don’t know why I even tried. And that guy . . . he was just
so . . .”
She shivers, and tears start falling down her cheeks.
“Don’t cry, Tess,” I whisper, and bring my hand to her
cheek. My thumb catches the wet tears as they fall, and she
sniffles. It’s such an innocent, vulnerable sound that I try to
look away from her, but can’t.
“I hadn’t noticed how gray your eyes are,” I confess.
I haven’t paid much attention to details beyond her breasts
and her susceptibility to my games until now. I was too busy,
too shallow.
But then I stop myself. No, I’m a liar. I’ve been paying
attention to the tiniest things about this girl since the moment I
saw her.
My hand still rests on her cheek, and she’s still staring at
me, full lips parted. I bring my metal lip ring between my teeth
and tug on it the way I always do. Her eyes are glued to my
mouth, and just as I pull my hand away, she leans closer,
pressing her mouth against mine.
I take a sharp breath, caught completely off guard. What is
she doing? What the fuck am I doing?
But I don’t stop. Can’t stop. I’m running my tongue along
her soft lips; I’m swallowing her small gasps as I cup her
cheeks between my hands. She’s sighing into my mouth, as if
she’s relieved to be kissing me. Her skin is hot, her mouth is
gentle and nervous, and I move my hands to her hips.
When I taste the vodka on her tongue, I pull back.
“Tess . . .” I breathe into her mouth. She sighs, and I swipe
my tongue across her lips, parting them again. I gasp, trying to
clear my mind. How did we get to this?
I feel cool, the opposite of the fire inside of me. It feels
good. It’s a relief from the constant burn. I’ve never felt this
sense of calm before; it’s threatening.
My mind is no longer in charge; the feel of her mouth on
mine has taken over all sense. I pull her closer, tightening my
grip on her hips, and lie back on the mattress. She climbs up
onto my torso and rests her hands on my chest. Her tongue
teases mine, never leaving my mouth. She’s so good at this.
Fuck, is she good at this.
Her hair falls down onto my skin, and I pull my mouth
away from hers. The whimper that leaves her lips when I do
this makes me instantly hard. She wants me. Her hands are
moving up and down my chest now, testing her limits, I can
tell.
I won’t let this go too far. Not tonight. She’s been drinking,
and that’s not my thing. I want her—hell, I want to fuck her
over and over again. I will feel her, all of her. But not tonight.
She’s a virgin, but how far has she gone with her boyfriend?
Has he had her like this, on top of him when he’s wearing only
boxers, rocking her hips over his, teasing him like this? Is this
how she really is with him, only to seem all prim and prude to
the outside world?
Has his tongue traced along the soft skin of her neck? By
the way she’s gasping under the touch of my tongue against
her skin, I would say no. She moans, and I hold her hair as I
kiss her neck. I move my mouth lower, gently nipping at her
collarbones, and she moans again, saying my name under her
breath.
I bring her mouth to mine, and she continues to rock against
me. I know she can feel how hard I am, how badly I want her.
“Hardin . . . stop,” she moans, her tongue still running
gently over mine. “Hardin!” she repeats. I pull back and look
at her. Her lips are swollen, sinfully pink, and her eyes are
wild.
“We can’t,” she says. Her fingers leave my skin, and the
dull burn turns to ice.
I knew it wouldn’t last; it was just a . . . a heat-of-the-
moment type thing. It was a moment I wanted to keep going,
but everything must end, in the end. I pull myself up onto my
elbows, and she rolls off of me, to the other side of the bed.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Her voice is low, raspy, and she sure
as hell doesn’t sound sorry by the heavy breaths falling from
her lips and the way her eyes can’t seem to look away from
my mouth.
Looking at her, I think about this book I read where the
women in the town vow to stop saying sorry in their everyday
lives. It was quite interesting the way they realized 90 percent
of the sorrys they were giving were for things they weren’t
responsible for. If Tessa lived in that town, she would fit right
in.
“Sorry for what?” I say as calmly as possible, and stand up
to dig through the messy drawer full of black T-shirts. As I
pull one on, I see her looking at me, down to my boxers. And
she blushes.
“For kissing you . . .”
Why would she apologize for kissing me? If she doesn’t
want to do anything with me, I don’t want her to, but I didn’t
give her any signals that I didn’t want the same thing.
“It was just a kiss—I kiss people all the time.” I purposely
keep my voice neutral, since I don’t want to make her feel
worse. She already regrets this and is ready to run for the hills
any second. I know it, and if she does, I have to chase her. I
can’t strike out this early in the game when I’ve already made
progress. I’ve had her hands on me, I’ve tasted her tongue.
I’ve already had her panting, wanting more. I have the upper
hand over Zed now, and I can’t let that slip. She’s going to
make a way bigger deal out of this than need be. If I comfort
her now, she’s much more likely to trust me, and that trust will
lead to me having another chance to get even further next
time.
She stares at the floor. Again. She’s already so full of regret
that she can’t even look at me? I don’t like how this feels.
She can’t regret it already; if she doesn’t get past this, I’m
fucked and Zed is going to win.
“Can we not make a big deal of it, then?” Tessa asks.
“Trust me, I don’t want anyone to know about this either.
Now stop talking about it.”
She winces at my words, and I wish I could take them back.
I’m terrible at this shit.
“So you’re back to your old self, I see?” Her eyes are
sharpening now, preparing for a battle. I want to snap at her,
but I keep my mouth shut.
She doesn’t know a damn thing about me. It pisses me off
that she thinks after a few encounters with me she’s some sort
of Hardin Scott fucking expert. She thinks she’s so much
better than me, and she’s terrified that people might find out
she kissed me because . . . well, I’m me and she’s Little Miss
Perfect. I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“I was never anyone else,” I tell her. “Don’t think because
you kissed me, basically against my will, we have some sort of
bond now.”
I can feel my words slam into her like a goddamn battering
ram, and she gets to her feet. Her fury is clear in her wide
eyes. A modern-day Joan of Arc, getting ready to burn me at
the stake.
“You could have stopped me,” she seethes. Her hands ball
into tights fists that she must think are made of fire.
My mouth reacts before I can think of anything to say:
“Hardly.”
Tessa sighs and brings her hands to cover her face. I look
away. She’s so emotional, and that’s not even the strange part.
The act of being emotional is normal, I suppose, but she’s just
so open to it. I’m not her friend or her family, and here she is
throwing her emotions around like I’ve known her my whole
life. She’s not afraid to show me how she feels; she doesn’t
seem to mind being exposed like this.
Theresa Young is such a maddening mystery to me. She’s
so open and fragile, yet guarded and sharp like glass. I can’t
figure her out. It’s pretty damn strange. The ease she seems to
feel about allowing me to see her this way is slightly
endearing, but it’s still strange.
“You can stay in here tonight since you don’t have
anywhere else to go,” I quietly offer.
Tessa shakes her head, her hands on her full hips, and she
scowls at me. I want to tell her that maybe I’m sorry for being
harsh to her, maybe I sometimes say shit that I shouldn’t, but
why use energy on a stranger? She doesn’t know me, and she
never will.
“No, thanks.”
When she disappears down the hallway, I grip the
doorframe and silently wish her a good night’s sleep, knowing
that I won’t get one.
“Tessa,” I quietly call after her, unsure if I actually want her
to hear.
ten
He was always stubborn from the beginning. She pushed
buttons he didn’t know he had and made him think of the
world in a different way. He never expected anything to come
from this game of his and he never knew how each glance
from her, each smile she awarded him with, was changing
him. He grew protective of her from early on, and he didn’t
recognize when his protection turned to control. He tried to
fight it, but he wasn’t strong enough until it was too late.
It’s been twenty minutes since she stormed off, and I can’t
find her anywhere. Why can’t she be like Molly or any of the
other girls I’ve hooked up with, and come running back? How
is it that she’s so strong-willed?
Knowing her—the little bit that I do know about this girl—
leads me to believe she’s going to shatter every preconceived
thought I had about girls in general.
Fucking yay. This will be fun.
“She left, dude.” Logan walks into the kitchen with a bottle
of vodka in his hands.
Left? She wouldn’t actually leave. She doesn’t even know
how to get back to campus, and her ancient phone won’t be
any help if she’s lost.
“No way.” I shake my head and reach for an empty cup.
When I turn the faucet on, Nate is looking at me with one
brow raised and a stupid grin on his face.
“What, fucker?” I ask him, chugging the water.
“Nothing, man.” He laughs and shares a shitty look with
Logan.
“Am I missing something here?” My hand waves between
the two of them.
“Nope.” Logan puts his hand on my shoulder, and I move
away. “Why are you looking for her, exactly?”
“Why do you think?” I say quickly, unsure whether I’m
lying to them or snapping back into the Bet. Yes, I’m still into
the game, but at this moment, I just want to know where the
fuck she went.
“Right.” Nate nudges Logan like me and my mates used to
nudge each other when we were in grade school. “Well, she’s
gone, anyway. I saw her walk out the front door.”
“And you just let her?”
“Let her? Why would I care if she walked outside and left?
You shouldn’t care either . . . I thought,” Nate says, his eyes
meeting Logan’s.
“Where’s Zed?” I ask them. Hopefully the question will
make them think I’m more worried about him getting a leg up
on me than anything else.
They both shake their heads and shrug their shoulders, then
go back to shooting the shit together like they’ve already lost
interest in all of this.
As I walk away from them, my hands ball into fists. Maybe
she called a friend to pick her up? Does the girl even have any
friends? She seems like the judgmental type that no one would
actually want to be friends with. Like me, in that way. Except
she’s slightly more likable. Slightly.
I’m sure she isn’t stupid enough to try to walk three miles
back to her dorm.
Stupid enough? No.
Stubborn enough? Hell fucking yes she is.
I walk through the halls upstairs one more time to be sure
she actually left the house. My room is empty; I was hoping
she would be annoying and break into my room again. I was
kind of hoping I would catch her sitting on my bed with one of
my books in her hands.
But no, of course she had to be ridiculously difficult and
leave the house. Alone.
Alone.
Fucking hell, she’s walking the damn streets alone.
What kind of . . . Goddamnit, she pisses me off. Could we
have chosen a more difficult girl for the Bet? Not bloody
likely.
“Nate!” I shout his name over the music as I rush down the
stairs.
“What? You in a hurry?” he says to me, a slow smirk rising
to his face. I slow down as I reach the bottom.
“Nah, I just . . .” I push my hair back from my forehead.
“I’m looking for that brunette—the one wearing a black tank
top, huge tits.” I hold my hands out in front of my chest to
mimic having this made-up woman’s body.
Nate’s eyes lower and he smiles. I can barely see the words
inked into the inside of his bottom lip when he says, “Oh, I get
it.”
He winks and Logan laughs.
“Well, I’m going to go find her . . .” I turn away from them
quickly. I can hear their faint shit talking as I walk away. I
leave the house without looking back and get into my car. The
streets are empty. Completely fucking empty, and she’s
nowhere to be found.
After a few more circles around the block, I decide to just
head to her dorm. She has to be there by now. Has to be.
When I get to the dorm, I realize I’ve been out for about
two hours already. At her room, the door opens without any
hesitation and I find Steph and Tristan lying on her bed. Her
shirt is off, her hands roaming his shirtless body. She removes
her mouth from his and sits up.
“Can I help you?” Steph licks her lips, smearing the last bit
of lipstick down across her mouth.
“Where’s Theresa?” I ask them. Tristan reaches for his
shirt, and Steph grabs it from him, tossing it onto the floor.
“Well?” I push.
“Not here. We passed her on the way.” Steph latches her
mouth on to Tristan’s neck, and I gag.
“Passed her? You saw her walking and you didn’t pick her
up?” I bend down and grab Tristan’s shirt, tossing it to him,
covering both of their faces with it. Tristan moves from the
bed, and I back away toward the door.
“Steph told me not to stop,” he says while getting dressed.
“What the fuck?” I turn to her.
She chuckles. “She’s fine. She could use some walking.”
“Hey.” Tristan nudges her, a disapproving look clear on his
face.
Steph rolls her eyes.
“Get dressed, both of you, and leave. She should be here
soon,” I say to them.
“This is my room. I’m not leaving,” Steph says.
“Come on.” I scramble for a reason for her to leave. “I need
some alone time with her.”
She laughs. “For what? To fuck her?”
“To work toward that, yes.”
“Let’s just go to my place. Nate probably won’t be there,”
Tristan says, and tucks Steph’s hair behind her ear. She smiles,
nodding in agreement.
Once the room is empty, I sit down on Tessa’s bed. As I’m
trying to decide whether or not to look through her stuff out of
curiosity, the door opens. There she stands in the doorway,
looking a few inches taller, her hands in tight fists. Her eyes
are wide; she’s bursting at the seams with carefully held-back
irritation. When I smile at her, she tears up.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Her voice is high and loud
as she throws her hands into the air.
“Where were you?” I calmly ask her, my tone the opposite
of the fire quickly growing inside of her. “I drove around
trying to find you for almost two hours.”
“What? Why?” she asks me, her expression a mixture of
exasperation and confusion. Her cheeks are pink from the cool
fall air, and her hair is windblown, not the neatly curled mop
I’m used to seeing on her.
I struggle to say something to explain it all, but only come
up with “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be walking
around at night, alone.”
She bursts into laughter. Laughter, of all things. What is
wrong with her? Her laugh is wild, completely opposite to her
controlled smiles and faked laughs. She looks half mad.
“Get out, Hardin—just get out!” she says as her laughter
grows softer.
“Theresa, I’m—”
But a pounding at the door interrupts me.
“Theresa! Theresa Young, you open this door!” a woman’s
voice shrieks through the air.
“Oh my God, Hardin, get in the closet,” Tessa whispers,
grabbing my arm and yanking me from the bed.
“I’m not hiding in the closet. You’re eighteen,” I argue.
Tessa rushes over to the mirror, closely inspecting her face and
smoothing down her wild hair. She hurries to the other side of
the room with a tube of toothpaste in her hand, squeezes a
dollop from it, and rubs it onto her tongue. It’s like I’m
watching a teenage girl get caught sneaking out of her
mummy’s house. She’s frantic as she walks to the door. Her
hand shakes when she turns the brass knob.
“Hey. What are you guys doing here?” Tessa asks her mum
as she walks through the door. Her mother commands the
room for the brief moment before another person joins us.
It’s the guy from before. Noah.
I can see that Tessa’s mum is coming straight toward me,
but I’m too focused on the boy. Tessa’s boyfriend, the
infamous Noah. His blond hair is a few shades lighter than
Tessa’s, and his cardigan is smooth, resting over his neatly
pressed khaki pants. It’s kind of amazing that at this early
point in the morning he so resembles a freshly minted preppy
action figure, still in the packaging.
But why is he here? Are they that serious?
Did he call her mum like some sort of morality police?
Her mother takes a deep breath and then lets it all out. “So
this is why you haven’t been answering your phone? Because
you have this . . .”—she waves her hands around in the same
way her daughter does—“this . . . tattooed . . . troublemaker in
your room at six a.m.!”
Tattooed troublemaker? What is with these women and
their primary school insults?
Tessa squares her shoulders, and I watch as her back
straightens, ready for a fight.
Well, now I know where Tessa gets her judgmental bullshit.
Also where she got her frame, curves, and fire. She’s shooting
daggers at her mum, but the woman doesn’t seem to notice the
way her daughter’s fingers are digging crescents into her palm.
Or the way the skin on her neck has turned slightly pink. She
doesn’t seem to notice. Neither does Mr. Rogers.
This irritates me—that Tessa is being chastised for
behaving like a normal college freshman. If anything, she’s
much tamer than anyone else I know. Her mum should be
proud of her.
“Is this what you do in college, young lady? You stay up all
night and bring boys back to your room?” the woman fumes.
“Poor Noah was worried sick about you, and we drive all this
way to find you running around with these strangers.”
Strangers? The way Noah’s backing up slowly toward the
door without noticing it as the woman’s voice grows
louder . . . I get the feeling he’s even more brainwashed than
Tessa-dearest.
I can’t help it; I speak up before Tessa gets a chance to
reply. “Actually, I just got here. And she wasn’t doing
anything wrong.”
Tessa gapes at me like I’m insane to go up against her
mum. For her part, her mother can’t seem to believe it either.
And their disbelief makes me laugh inside; these people have
no idea what I’m capable of.
“Excuse me? I certainly was not speaking to you. I don’t
know what someone like you is doing hanging around my
daughter anyway.”
The douche in the corner stays silent, as he should.
“Mother . . .” Tessa says, attempting to be as threatening as
possible. She looks at me briefly, her eyes are harder than
usual. I can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or anger that
there’s such fire coming out.
Her mum isn’t fazed. “Theresa, you’re out of control.” She
speaks through her teeth. “I can smell the liquor on you from
here, and I can only assume that this is the influence of your
lovely roommate and him,” she says, looking directly at me.
Pointing at me.
If she knew me, she would put that finger right back down.
“I’m eighteen, Mother,” Tessa begins, but she already
sounds defeated. “I’ve never drunk before, and I didn’t do
anything wrong. I’m just doing what every other college
student is doing. I’m sorry that my cell-phone battery died,
and that you drove all the way here, but I’m fine.”
Tessa sits on the edge of her chair. I don’t like how
uncomfortable they make her. She’s like a stranger to me as
she sits, timidly waiting for the next blow from the bitch.
I don’t move. Even when the hurricane in this woman’s
eyes focuses back on me.
“Young man, could you leave us for a minute?”
She’s not really asking. And her “young man” might sound
polite, but really she’s just trying that bitchy thing where she
talks down to me while seeming reasonable. I grew up around
rich kids; I know that move.
I look over at Theresa, making sure she understands that I
won’t leave unless she’s okay to face her mum and boyfriend
alone. She nods, but I can see the confusion in her gray eyes.
I go, as requested, my chest burning.
eleven
When he began to see her in his dreams, it terrified him. She
was now swallowing him whole, taking every ounce of him
and running off with it. It terrified him to think about the
things she could do to him once she was in. He didn’t want to
allow it, but he didn’t have the strength to fight it. He had
always thought of himself as strong. He ruled everything, until
she came in and took his crown.
I wait and wait for Tessa’s dorm room door to open and for
her mum and her minion to leave. Minute after minute goes
by, and I begin to question my sanity.
Why am I waiting for her? What will I even say to her when
her visitors leave? Will she want to talk to me at all? Maybe
she will if I apologize for letting her kiss me. That may solve
all of the problems here.
Finally, the door opens and her mum walks out, casting an
imperious eye down at me where I lean against a neighbor’s
door. On her heels is Tessa, her hand snugly wrapped around
Noah’s.
I get to my feet, not quite sure what to say, but feeling the
need to say, to do, something.
“We’re going to go into town,” Tessa tells me, and what can
I do but nod and let them go on their way?
I can’t stop looking at Tessa’s hand in her boyfriend’s. She
flushes and pulls away as her mum gives me the fakest smile
I’ve ever seen.
“I really don’t like that guy,” I hear Mr. Rogers say.
“Me either,” Tessa quietly responds.
Which is for the best. Because I don’t really like her either.
WHEN I GET TO MY car, my phone’s vibrating in the cup
holder. I reach for it and answer when I see Molly’s name
across the screen. She says one word—“hairpulling”—and
hangs up.
Five minutes later, I walk into Molly’s apartment without
knocking, and her roommate glares at me, smoke pouring from
her mouth. The whites of her eyes flicker beneath heavy
mascara, and she takes another hit of her cigarette. “She’s in
her room.”
Molly’s lying in her bed, her head propped up on a mound
of pillows and her bare legs spread wide open. Her room is
small, the light blue walls covered in photos from fashion
magazines. Mostly black-and-white pictures that she’s clipped
and taped up. Her bed is positioned against the wall farthest
from the door, and her room has no windows. I would hate to
be trapped in a room with no windows. No wonder she’s never
here.
She gestures for me to join her on the bed; her pink hair is
wild, tied on top of her head in a nest. “Well, well, well, look
who it is,” she taunts when I sit next to her. Lifting her skirt up
farther, she exposes black panties. She runs her hands down
her thighs, circling them around their lacy edges.
“You called me,” I remind her.
“And you came,” she chirps, reciting the line in a sarcastic
and proud voice.
“Don’t get too excited. I was bored and you made yourself
available.” Shrugging my shoulders, I look over at her. Her
brows are furrowed, and she’s pretending to be offended.
“This is true.” She laughs, and I shake my head at her
shameless behavior.
Molly’s hand is cold when she wraps it around my arm and
pulls me closer to her. The scars on her wrist shine in the half-
light from the lamp on her side table.
Molly’s lips press to my neck, and I try not to picture
Tessa’s full lips. Molly climbs down my body, her hands
reaching for the buttons on my jeans. She pops them open
quickly and drags my pants and boxers down my legs. I lift up,
helping her undress me while trying to convince myself that I
want this. This is fun. This is what people like me do for fun.
People like me and Molly, fucked-up people. I have my issues,
and she has her own—ones she fortunately hasn’t ever tried to
tell me about, ones I don’t give enough fucks about to even
consider asking her about. I know she’s like me. That’s all I
need to know.
Her tongue licks at the head of my cock, teasing me. I don’t
do teasing, so I reach for a handful of her pink hair, guiding
her mouth to take all of me. She gags slightly, and I release
her. I know she likes it rough—in fact, rougher than I’m
willing to go with her, ever.
Tessa’s hair thick in my fist, I pull tighter. Her mouth is so
wet, so warm. Her tongue moves over me with more
aggression than I would have imagined. Her hands glide down
my thighs; her nails are longer than I remember.
“Hardin,” she moans, and takes another lick, drawing me
between her lips. Her voice is high-pitched and feels off.
“Fuck, Tessa.”
The moment the words come out, Tessa’s full lips deflate.
Molly immediately tenses and pulls away from me.
“Really?”
I clear my throat. “What?”
She rolls her eyes. “I heard you.”
“You didn’t hear anything, and even if you did, don’t act
like you haven’t called me Log—”
“Shut up.” She holds up a hand and waves it dramatically.
“Do you want me to finish?” And just like that, her tone’s
changed back to playful, and I realize she’s looking at me with
this weird sympathetic expression, like she needs to feel sorry
for me or some shit.
The idea infuriates me. She’s just as lonely and fucked up
as I am . . . Who is she to feel bad for me?
“No.” I pull my pants back up, and when I stand up and
push my phone into my pocket, she still has that look. My
anger means nothing to her.
“I’m not walking you out,” she says with a laugh, back to
her normal nihilism for a moment. But then she adds, “Be
careful with this shit. Girls like her don’t ever end up with
fuckups like you.”
Her eyes grow even sadder for me, and I feel like puking all
over her black rug. I know she’s not even trying to insult me—
she’s being real and honest, but I don’t need her advice.
I don’t want to “end up with” Tessa. I want to fuck her and
win. That’s all.
Without another word, I walk out and drive back to my
house.
twelve
The pounding at the door won’t stop. The man behind the
door calls my name, and I try to be as quiet as I can when I
open the closet door and hide inside. I close the door and wait,
covering my ears as the pounding gets louder.
“Get out here now!” his voice booms.
My father is drunk again; he’s drunk every night now.
With one final hit, his fist snaps the wood on the door, and
the cracking of the wood sends a shiver down my spine. I hate
that I’m afraid of him—I shouldn’t be. I’m twelve and I’m
pretty tall for my age. I should be able to defend myself.
Why am I afraid? Because I’m so pathetic.
His voice mixes with the other men’s voices . . . are they
here again? I’m not sure. They shouldn’t be because he is, but
maybe he wouldn’t protect us anyway.
The closet door opens, and I scoot back against the wall
until I have nowhere left to hide.
I wake with a shout, screaming into the empty, lonely
space. I’ve stayed in this room for nearly three days straight
now, and not one person has called, not one person has
knocked on my door. I’ve gotten a lot of work done, though. I
don’t want to run into her. I don’t want to see Zed or the rest of
them. They haven’t called on me either.
That’s what happens when you’re invisible: no one gives a
fuck about you, and you have no one to give a fuck about.
I reach for the dirty black shirt on the floor next to my bed
and wipe it across my sweat-soaked face. My hair is damp and
my vision is blurry, mixing the past and the present, keeping
my lack of a future out of this mess for now.
I suppose I wouldn’t say “lack of.” I’ll be one of those men
who work too much, fuck too much, and come home to an
empty house every night. I’ll be successful financially and I’ll
buy a house even bigger than Ken’s and never invite him over,
just like Don Draper. Just to prove a point.
I’m not sure what that point will be, but I have one
somewhere in there. Somewhere.
I’m getting the fuck out of this bed today.
WHEN I GET TO CAMPUS, I seek out Tessa immediately.
It’s been a little while since I’ve seen her. I wonder if Zed has
seen her . . . Has he won a few points while I’ve been in
solitude? It’s midmorning, so she’d be getting out of
Literature. Unless she’s cut class . . .
As if. I get to the building just as class is ending and in time
to see her exit the classroom. She’s done something different
to her hair. Just cut it, I think? It looks nice, mostly the same,
but the change is just enough for me to notice. I wonder if
anyone else has noticed . . . but when I see her sidekick
Landon walking out after her, I realize that of course he did.
I walk up behind the pair of them and say, “You’ve cut your
hair, Theresa.”
I’ve surprised her, but she turns around and quickly greets
me—“Hey, Hardin”—before she starts walking faster. Her flat
shoes make a squeaking sound as they slide across the floor
tiles. What is she in such a hurry for . . . ?
And then I get it: she doesn’t want her angelic friend here
to know that she kissed me. That she practically threw herself
on me.
Her discomfort is like a challenge I can’t ignore.
“How was your weekend?” I ask with a big grin.
In response, she grabs Landon’s arm and pulls him closer to
her, walking even faster away from me. “Good. Well, I’ll see
you around!” Tessa yells over her shoulder.
She pulls them outside through the main door, and I let
them go, my urgency to see her dissipating.
I walk around the streets of the campus, slowly making my
way to my car. Actually going to classes seems too difficult
right now.
After a few minutes, I find Zed sitting on a bench outside
the science building, a cigarette between his lips.
He looks up at me, smoke blowing from his mouth. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I don’t know if I should sit down or walk away.
“Have you made any progress with the girl?” he asks.
“Yes, a little,” I lie. “You?”
I wait impatiently as he takes another drag. “Nah. I’m
feeling a little weird about it. Aren’t you?”
“Nah,” I say, repeating the word he uses too much. It’s
always “nah” to this and “nah” to that, like nothing’s ever
quite good enough to demand his attention and it’s all too
lowly for him to have to utter a real word for.
Zed shrugs, and I decide to find Tessa now while he’s here
being a pussy and smoking too many cigarettes. I hate the
smell of cigarettes—reminds me of my mum’s house. Growing
up, I could barely breathe through the thick clouds, and I can
almost feel the sticky yellow streaks of tar covering the faded
wallpaper of the living room.
To occupy a little time, I stop and get a coffee but end up
gulping the thing down in less than two minutes. As my throat
burns from the heat, I wonder why I’m so anxious.
After getting up with no aim in sight, I decide to go to
Steph’s building, but take my time on the way there and look
at all the people milling about campus. Couples walking
together and brainiacs in clusters discussing something
excitedly, a bunch of preppy jocks throwing a ball around. It’s
just too much.
As I’m walking down the dorm hallway, I spot Steph’s red
hair.
“Hardin! You looking for me?” she asks with her hand
raised.
“Not exactly.” I glance across the hallway, toward the door
of her room.
“Ohhh, got it.” She laughs and adjusts her cleavage. “Well,
I’ll go find something to do so you can have some time with
her.” As she walks away, back toward the exit, she turns when
she reaches the end of the hallway and shouts, “You’re
welcome, asshole!”
“I’m not thanking you,” I mumble quietly, and knock on
her door.
I hear some papers ruffling around and a book close. Tessa
takes six steps to the door, and I blow a deep breath into my T-
shirt to check my breath.
Did I actually just . . .
“Steph isn’t back yet,” Tessa says as soon as she opens the
door. Surprisingly, she doesn’t look at me once before she
walks to her bed—and doesn’t slam the door in my face. A
decent start.
“I can wait.” I sit down on Steph’s bed and look over at
Tessa’s side of the room.
“Suit yourself,” she replies with a groan and childishly
pulls her blanket over her head. I laugh and watch her still
body, wondering what’s going through her mind. Is this like
some method of reverse peekaboo that’s supposed to make me
disappear or something?
I tap my fingers against Steph’s headboard, hoping to annoy
Tessa enough to talk to me. No luck, but when a few minutes
later an alarm starts beeping, she reaches one arm from
beneath the blanket and turns it off.
Is she going somewhere? With who?
“Going somewhere?” I ask Tessa.
“No.” She sits up, the blanket falling and revealing her
face, filled with attitude. “I was taking a twenty-minute nap.”
“You set an alarm to make sure your nap is only twenty
minutes?” I laugh, mentally wishing I could get more sleep
than every once in a while.
“Yeah, I do. So what’s it to you, anyway?”
I watch as she lays her textbooks out in order of her class
schedule. I shouldn’t catch on to the fact that that’s what she’s
doing, but I do. I apparently know a lot about her somehow.
She takes a small binder and rests it next to the neat stack of
books. She’s fucking obsessive.
“Are you OCD or something?” I ask her, kind of amazed.
“No, not everyone’s crazy because they just like things a
certain way. There’s nothing wrong with being organized.”
She’s so condescending. She’s actually a very unpleasant
girl, despite how sweet she appears. I laugh at the idea that she
must think she’s so perfect and polished but she actually has
one of the worst tempers I’ve seen and she judges people like
it’s her job.
I walk closer to her, trying to think of a new way to get
under her skin. She’s so easily annoyed, it won’t have to be
anything serious. I quickly scan her neat room, taking in the
perfectly made bed covered in neat stacks of paper and
textbooks. Gotcha.
I grab a stack of papers from her bed the same moment her
eyes rest on mine. She looks down, trying to think of a way to
negotiate with me. She reaches for them, but I tease her, lifting
them too high for her to grab. Debating how far I should go
with this, I take in her heaving breaths, the way her chest is
rising and her lip is quivering in anger. It kind of turns me on,
and I want to go just a little further. Not far enough to actually
piss her off, just to annoy her enough that I have to charm my
way back in. I toss the papers into the air and watch the white
pages float around the room before falling into a scattered
mess on her floor. Her mouth falls open, and her cheeks flush
with anger.
“Pick those up!” she snaps.
I smirk at her, wondering if she actually thinks I would
comply with her command. Maybe if she agreed to wrap her
lips around my cock. Upping the ante, I grab another stack of
papers and scatter them to the floor.
“Hardin, stop!” Her voice cracks through the air,
threatening me.
I repeat the action, and then she surprises me by charging
forward and shoving me away from her bed.
“You mean, someone doesn’t like their stuff being messed
with?” I tease her, laughing at her expense. She’s so angry
now, much angrier than a normal person would be over
something so stupid.
“No! I don’t!” she shouts, and shoves me again.
I thrive off her anger. Her energy is breathing life into me.
I’m just as pissed off as she is—and I need to have her. Now.
I take a quick step toward her, grabbing her wrists and
cornering her against the wall. She stares at me, not even close
to backing down, and I can see the way her eyes change from
frustration to hunger for me. If I know anything about women,
it’s when they are turned on, and Tessa is most definitely
turned on. She gets off on this passionate anger, the same way
that I do. She stares into my eyes before her gaze quickly darts
to my mouth, and that’s when I’m positive that she wants this
to happen. She fucking wants me. She may not like me, but
she’s attracted to me. It’s mutual, I want to tell her. I stare
back, wanting to tell her that I don’t like her either, that this
thing between us is just pure lust. That we are on the same
wavelength here. That it’s all animal hunger—a very high
level of lust, but lust all the same.
“Hardin, please,” she whispers.
Her voice is low, wanting me to go away and to kiss her at
the same time. I know this because I want to run as far as I can
from this girl, but here I stand, too, my eyes on her mouth. Her
chest is rising and falling fast. I reach up, just needing to touch
her, and the moment my fingers graze her skin, she sighs.
She’s staring at me, waiting. I release her wrist but use my
other hand to take both of her wrists. Her tongue peeks out,
covering her bottom lip, and I lose it. The noise is so faint, so
weak, that I don’t even think she realizes she made it. I heard
it, though. I heard it, and I’m broken by it.
I press my body against hers, pinning her gently to the wall.
She groans into my mouth, and her arms reach up and wrap
around my shoulders. Her tongue follows mine, moving
perfectly in sync with my claiming lips. I grip the tops of her
thighs and lift her up to me. As I hold her against me, my heart
is beating so fucking fast and I’m so turned on by her that I
don’t know how I will ever stop this. Tessa’s body clings to
mine still, and her mouth doesn’t stop taking mine as I walk us
back to her bed.
Tessa pulls at my hair and drives me fucking wild. I feel
like every inch of my body has been scattered across this small
room; then, when she moans, her breath coming out in rapid
uncontrollable huffs, I sit back on her bed, bringing her with
me. I move her to sit on my lap, keeping my hands on her full
hips. I know my fingers are digging into her skin, a sign of my
body trying to comprehend what’s happening. I’ve done this
before, many fucking times, so why can’t I keep up with this?
I can’t keep up with her.
“Fuck,” I mutter, feeling my cock straining against my
jeans.
I move my hands from her waist and tug at the bottom of
her shirt; she moans, and I pull my mouth away from hers to
remove her shirt. My eyes trace down from her eyes to her full
and swollen lips, to her chest. Her tits are covered by a black
bra: no lace, no sparkles, nothing special. Just worn black
fabric. So innocent and plain and normal I find it oddly
appealing. I bite down on my lip, trying to have some control
over myself and not rip her bra from her soft body. Her tits are
full, swollen and bursting out of the material. There’s a freckle
there, just under her neckline, and I want to kiss it. I want to
cover her entire body with my mouth and taste her release on
my tongue as I make her come.
“You’re so sexy, Tess,” I breathe into her mouth. She gasps,
and I swallow the incredible sound.
My control continues to diminish as she rocks harder
against my body. I wrap my arms around her back to bring her
even closer to me—
Tessa jumps off my lap and reaches for her shirt. The trance
we were in is broken as she pulls her T-shirt over her head and
down to cover her body, and it’s only then that I hear the
sound of the door opening.
How did she hear it—was she not as into it as I was? No
way I would have stopped, even if her schoolmarm mum and
Mr. Rogers had been coming through that door.
But instead it’s Steph, standing there faking a shocked
expression. I’ve seen this look before, and it immediately
makes me wonder if Zed paid her to come back and interrupt
us.
I hope Tessa doesn’t genuinely like her or believe her to be
her friend. Steph’s personality is faker than her Kool-Aid–
dyed hair.
“What the hell did I miss?” Steph asks, her hands on her
hips.
“Nothing much,” I respond, getting to my feet. Steph winks
at me as Tessa stares at the wall, avoiding eye contact.
I leave the room without looking back.
I can’t say anything or else I’ll explode.
My chest is killing me, my heart is beating loudly, and I
feel like a maniac.
In a trance, I get back to the house, to my room, and
immediately decide to take the longest shower I’ve ever taken
to try and forget the way this strange, sheltered girl makes me
feel. This is getting fucking messy. It wasn’t supposed to be
messy. I wasn’t supposed to crave her mouth and her mind
equally. I wasn’t supposed to think about how tight she would
feel around me as I rock into her soft body. I’m not supposed
to get off, imagining my hand is hers.
I was supposed to get what I wanted, win the Bet, and move
along with my damn life.
After however long, the water starts to run cold and I
finally step out onto the cold tile. When I open the cabinet for
a towel, the bottle of brown liquor hidden inside by who-
knows-who smiles at me, reminding me of its control over me.
I’ve gone this long without that draw to the cabinet—why am I
focusing on it now? I half expected one of the guys in the
house to finish it off by now, but had also secretly wished no
one would.
I have this nasty need to control everything in my life. So
far, since I’ve been sober, I’ve done a damn good job of being
fully aware and in control of my thoughts and my actions; but
Tessa’s gray eyes won’t stop looking at me, and her brilliant
mind won’t stop begging me to unlock more of her secrets.
The bottle calls for me, and I slam the cabinet closed.
I still have control.
I won’t let Tessa or that fucking bottle control me.
I won’t.
I stare up at the ceiling when I finally make it to my bed,
and I just know it’s going to be a long night.
IT’S DARK, SO DARK in this closet. I’m tired of hiding in
here, but there’s nowhere else to go. My mum’s screams won’t
be drowned out, and no matter how many times I search
downstairs for her, I can’t find her. I hear her, but don’t see her.
I saw them, though, the men. I saw them and I heard their
voices echoing through the walls of this small house and into
my head.
The closet door opens, and I curl back, hoping not to be
seen but slightly wanting them to just end the sounds of my
mum screaming.
A hand reaches through the small space, and I look around
for something to defend myself with other than a coat hanger.
“Hardin?” a soft voice calls through the dark.
The hanging clothes part in the middle, and she steps in,
looking directly at me.
Tessa.
She’s here? How?
“Don’t be scared, Hardin.”
She sits down next to me, her body so warm and unafraid.
She has a flower pushed behind her ear, and she’s reaching for
my hands. Her small fingernails are crusted with dirt, and she
smells like a flower shop or a greenhouse.
My mum’s screams have stopped, and my heart slows from
a panic to a cool rhythm as she wraps her small hand around
mine.
BY THE TIME I get to campus, the caffeine has surged
through my body, sharpening my sight and helping me forget
the fucked-up dream that I had.
Why was she there? Why would I dream about Tessa? It
wasn’t even Tessa as she is now; it was a version of young
Tessa, her cheeks rounded and her eyes bright and comforting
with premature womanliness. It was odd—so fucking weird,
really—and I didn’t like it one bit.
I loved the sleep, though. I loved being able to sleep for
once in my fucking life, and today I feel . . . well . . . rested?
Hell, calmer, at least.
Inside the literature hall, I take a seat in the front row, next
to two empty ones. I gaze toward the front of the room,
waiting for class to start. I’m fighting the urge to watch the
door, to wait for her.
When I finally look back a few minutes later, Tessa and
Landon enter the room. She’s smiling, focusing only on him.
She’s developed a friendship with the kid that has gone
beyond what I saw coming.
I wasn’t surprised when they hit it off . . . but I didn’t think
Landon’s friendship would be more of a threat than Zed’s
competition for the Bet.
thirteen
Today will be our last day on Pride and Prejudice,” the
professor tells us. “I hope you’ve all enjoyed it, and since
you’ve all read the ending, it feels fitting to base today’s
discussion on Austen’s use of foreshadowing. Let me ask: As a
reader, did you expect Elizabeth and Darcy to become a
couple in the end?”
Tessa’s hand shoots up instantly, and I lean back in my seat.
She never fails to be a know-it-all. Just like Landon . . . the
perfect little American couple.
“Miss Young.” The professor calls on her, and I watch her
face light up. She really gets off on making other people happy
or pleased by her. I could use this to my advantage, for sure.
I shut off my inner monologue and patiently await her rant
on good ol’ P&P. If she’s as bright as I think she is, this should
be interesting.
“Well, the first time I read the novel, I was on the edge of
my seat about whether they would end up together.”
Yeah, I would bet they would end up together, just like I’m
betting that Tessa and perfect Landon will have the perfect
relationship.
“Even now—and I have read it at least ten times—I still
feel anxious during the beginning of their relationship. Mr.
Darcy is so cruel and says hateful things about Elizabeth and
her family that I never know if she’ll be able to forgive him,
let alone love him.” The smile on Tessa’s face is bright when
she finishes, and her hands neatly fold together on top of her
book. She waits expectantly for the professor to pat her on the
head and tell her what a wonderful little pupil she is. Landon
looks at her, expecting her to glow like a rainbow and spray
out colorful glitter from her fingertips.
I’m going to throw a wrench into that.
Speak, Hardin.
My voice nudges at the back of my throat. All it will take is
a few words. My mum’s reminder: “Just breathe, Hardin. You
can talk in front of others.” She would always tell me not to
worry. “A lot of people have social anxiety, Hardin. It’s
nothing to be ashamed of.”
But me, I don’t have social anxiety. I just don’t like people.
“That’s a load.” My voice is loud, filling up the silent room.
“Mr. Scott? Would you like to add something?” the
professor asks, clearly surprised by my participation.
“Sure.” I lean forward in my seat. Tessa’s face is a blank
mask; she’s shocked but hiding it well. “I said that’s a load.
Women want what they can’t have. Mr. Darcy’s rude attitude
is what drew Elizabeth to him, so it was obvious they would
end up together.”
That said, I look down and start to pick at the torn, pink
skin surrounding my fingernails.
“That isn’t true, about women wanting what they can’t
have,” Tessa bursts out. I look over at her as smoothly as I’m
able. “Mr. Darcy was only mean to Elizabeth because he was
too proud to admit he was attracted to her. Once he stopped his
hateful act, she saw that he really loved her.” And to punctuate
her passionate words, she slaps one shaking hand against her
desk, hard.
I glance around to the roomful of eyes blinking back at us.
My friend Dan’s sister is sitting in the front row, smiling
widely at me.
I can feel the eyes of my fellow students probing at my
skin. I need to say something back. I need to speak. “I don’t
know what kind of guys you normally go for, but I think that if
Darcy loved her, he wouldn’t have been mean to her,” I say.
Just like I’m sure your current boyfriend and your future
boyfriend, Landon there, wouldn’t be. They wouldn’t
challenge her. “The only reason he even ended up asking for
her hand in marriage was because she wouldn’t stop throwing
herself at him.”
Did Elizabeth throw herself at Darcy? No, the exact
opposite.
Does Tessa throw herself at me? No, again, the exact
opposite.
But I couldn’t let her win like that.
“She did not throw herself at him! He manipulated her into
thinking he was kind and took advantage of her weakness!”
“He ‘manipulated’ her? Try again, she is . . .” I pause, my
jumbled thoughts messing up my speech. “I mean, she was so
bored with her boring life that she had to find excitement
somewhere—so she certainly was throwing herself at him!”
I pause, kind of shocked that I shouted these words at her,
that my bruised hands are gripping the corner of the old desk.
“Well, maybe if he wasn’t such a manwhore, he could have
stopped it after the first time instead of showing up in her
room!”
By the time she’s finished, the snickers, gapes, and laughter
indicate that everyone in the room has definitely caught on to
our little show. LIVE READING should have been written on a
sign and hung in the hall outside the room.
Manwhore?
I may have slept my way across this campus, made more
mistakes than she has, and forgotten half of them, but at least
I’m not a prissy, judgmental snob. Imagine if I called her the
female version of what she called me?
“Okay, lively discussion,” the professor says, looking
panicked, likely worried that human emotion has spoiled his
perfectly planned lesson. “I think that’s probably enough on
that topic for today . . .”
Tessa grabs her bag, clutches it to her chest, and rushes
toward the exit. Landon stays in his seat, always unsure what
to do in any type of stressful situation. Maybe because his life
has been so perfect. His mum probably made him freshly
baked muffins sprinkled with love every morning before
school.
I fed myself stale Cheerios and had to smell the inside of
the carton to check if the milk was expired or not. There’s no
syllabus or menu for what Tessa and I seem to be doing.
I bolt out of the room myself. Tessa doesn’t get to flee from
every conflict she creates. I can tell she’s used to that, always
having her way.
“You don’t get to run this time, Theresa!” I call to her.
Everyone in the hallway looks in my direction, but she
keeps moving and I have to run to catch up to her. Just as she
turns to go outside, I grab hold of her arm to stop her. She
jerks away and my light grip relaxes.
“Why do you always touch me like that? Grab my arm
again, and I will slap you!” Her tone is furious and her voice
is so loud.
I reach for her arm again. She doesn’t flinch.
“What do you want, Hardin? To tell me how desperate I
am? To laugh at me for letting you get to me again? I am so
sick of this game with you—” She’s stomping her foot along
with her words, and her hands are swirling in the air like
always. It amuses me the way she talks with her hands.
She’s still going on and on. I honestly couldn’t tell you
what she’s saying. She’s just so mad, so infuriated with me,
that she’s lost her damn mind. When she’s around Landon,
she’s all smiles and comfort. With me, she’s rage and
electricity. Her eyes are shining—with anger or sadness, I’m
not sure, but at least I know that I still elicit an emotional
response from her.
“I really do bring out the worst in you, don’t I?” My fingers
fidget with a small burn hole along the bottom hem of my
black T-shirt. “I’m not trying to play games with you.”
Seeing the crowd gathering, I run my hands over my head.
Why does everything always get so dramatic with her?
Tessa rubs her temples with her fingertips. “Then what are
you doing? Because your mood swings give me a headache.”
I reach for her arms, grasping them gently to get her
attention. She doesn’t resist, so I lead her into a small alleyway
between two buildings, scowling at the people nearby to back
off. I don’t want anyone to hear our conversation, anyone to
pressure her to put on her “perfect girl” face.
I look down at her, admiring her stillness. She appears so
calm, so neutral, even given the proximity of our bodies. I see
a chink in her armor when her eyes meet mine, and she gulps,
her lips shaking.
“Tess, I . . . I don’t know what I’m doing. You kissed me
first, remember?” I say. It doesn’t matter if I’ve thought about
the way her lips tasted on mine every day since. She made the
first move, and that will always be a winning argument for me.
“Yeah . . . I was drunk, remember?” Her eyes stare down,
ashamed. “And you kissed me first yesterday.” She’s never
going to admit that she wanted me. There will always be an
excuse for her. I’m growing more and more annoyed by her
denial. I felt the way she blossomed underneath my kiss.
She may hate me, but her body doesn’t.
“Yeah . . . you didn’t stop me.” I pause for a beat, watching
the curiosity build in her eyes. “It must be exhausting,”
“What must be exhausting?” she asks, her chin tilted up in
the most defiant way.
“Acting like you don’t want me when I know you do.” I
purposely step closer, making her back touch the wall behind
her.
She’s so still, like her body’s come to the realization of
what she wants already.
But then her mind overtakes her again and she blurts out,
“What? I do not want you. I have a boyfriend.” She’s reaching
far to pretend to speak with a calm voice.
I smile a little. “A boyfriend that you’re bored with. Admit
it, Tess. Not to me, but to yourself. You’re bored with him.” I
draw each word out as slowly as possible, my face moving
closer and closer to hers. Her eyes are drawn to my mouth; of
course they are. She’s weighing her options. She must be
remembering the way I kiss her, because she touches her lips
gently. She’s caught here, with me. Her desire and burning
sexual curiosity for me won’t let her walk away, not this time.
“Has he ever made you feel the way I do?” I lay this last
line on thick, genuinely curious if he has.
“W-what? Of course he has,” she tries to insist.
I’m not buying it. She sounded more sincere talking about a
classic novel than about her lovely boyfriend’s ability to please
her.
“No . . . He hasn’t. I can tell that you’ve never been
touched . . . really touched.”
Her lips are parted now, I can practically hear her heart
thumping out of her chest. I wonder how I look through her
eyes. Can she see that her shaky breaths and plump lips are
making me crazy? Is there something in my eyes that tells her
I really want to wrap her hair around my fist, turn her head to
me, and kiss her?
Her body knows, her body knows.
“That’s none of your business.”
She must not be able to tell. Once you wear a mask for as
long as she has, it’s nearly impossible to take it off. Either that,
or she’s the one who feels invisible.
“You have no idea how good I can make you feel.” I step
closer. Let me convince you, let me show you, I want to beg
her.
Her back touches the wall again, and she looks around for
some way to gain distance from me. She’s breathing hard now,
clearly affected by me. Finally.
“Really, you don’t have to admit it. I can tell.”
She gasps—a seemingly innocent sound, but I know better.
I know she wants more; her mind and body yearn for it.
“Your pulse has quickened, hasn’t it? Your mouth is dry,
you have that feeling . . . down there. Don’t you, Theresa?” I
imagine her naked body sprawled out for me, my finger
tracing over the wetness soaking from her pussy.
She sucks in a sharp breath and tries to look away from me,
but fails miserably. “You’re wrong.” She knows I’m right.
“I’m never wrong.” I smile. She hesitates, tucking a stray
lock of hair behind her ear. “Not about this.”
Tessa takes a breath, and I know I’m in for it. “Why do you
keep saying I throw myself at you if you’re the one cornering
me now?”
“Because you made the first move on me. Don’t get me
wrong.” I laugh. “I was as surprised as you were.”
“I was drunk and had a long night—as you already know. I
was confused because you were being nice to me . . . well,
your version of being nice.” My version of being nice? I’m
usually nice to her. Exceptionally nice now that I have a
reason to be. The Bet plays at the corners of my mind, and I
remember to tread a little lighter than I typically would.
Tessa moves past me and sits down on the concrete curb. I
look around to see if anyone is watching us, but no one seems
to notice us at all.
“I’m not that mean to you,” I say, though I’m starting to
wonder if she really thinks this.
“Yeah, you are. You go out of your way to be mean to me.
Not just me, but everyone. It just seems like you are extra hard
on me, though.”
Mean? I’m no meaner to her than I am to a kitten. I’ve been
easy on her.
“That’s just not true. I’m no meaner to you than I am to the
rest of the general population,” I joke. She doesn’t find me
funny in the least. If she could, she would send me flying with
the flick of her wrist.
Tessa jumps to her feet. “I don’t know why I keep wasting
my time!”
She’s going to leave. I don’t want her to leave, do I?
No. I don’t. I’m not the best with apologies, especially
when I don’t feel they’re needed, but I have to stop being a
bitch about this and just say sorry. She’s easily calmed by an
apology, as I’ve quickly learned.
“Hey, I’m sorry. Just come back over here,” I say, using the
persuasive tone I know girls like. She stands up, and I sit down
on the curb close to where she was sitting.
“Sit.” I pat the ground next to me. She huffs a little and sits
down. She crosses her legs and sighs. I’m surprised by the
calm that I feel when I’m granted her forgiveness.
“You’re sitting awfully far away,” I tease her. She tosses me
an eye roll. “You don’t trust me?” I know the answer to this.
Of course she doesn’t, but she wants to. I want her to trust
me more than I care to admit.
“No, of course I don’t. Why would I?” Her words are fast,
sharp.
I inch back. I don’t trust her either, but she doesn’t need to
be so quick about her answers. She obviously has some type of
draw to me; otherwise we wouldn’t be having this
conversation. She has to feel some fraction of it to be here.
“Can we just agree to either stay away from each other or
be friends? I don’t have it in me to keep fighting with you.” I
don’t feel like we fight a lot; we just talk more than either of
us expected. I fight with her less than I fight with Ken and talk
to her more. That’s saying something.
We’ve both gotten used to it. It would be strange to think of
not seeing Tessa again. I’ve gotten used to her sassy mouth
and the way her eyes give away how angry she gets with me.
Her fire is contagious. It’s becoming an addiction for me, as if
I need another high calling my name.
“I don’t want to stay away from you,” I admit. I hate that I
have to be on my best behavior with her: one small slipup, and
she runs. I would like to think that we’ve grown a little closer
today, that maybe she wouldn’t be so quick to leave. I’m
expected to tell her how I feel, to be more open than I’m
comfortable with, and I barely get anything in return. It’s like
I’m married without the benefits of sex and dinner every night.
“I mean . . . I don’t think we can stay away from each other,
with one of my best friends being your roommate and all. So I
suppose we should try to be friends.” I have a game to win
here, and she’s not being the easiest pawn.
“Okay, so friends?” she asks, her voice mimicking someone
making a business deal. I could offer to split half of my
winnings with her. A beautiful start to a blooming friendship
that would make.
Friends? Friends who fuck, maybe? Fucking friends.
“Friends.” I push my hand between us for her to shake.
My smile is cunning, full-on charming. She catches on and
shakes her head at me. She senses a little bit of my danger, but
not enough to keep her away.
“Not friends with benefits,” she insists, but then is betrayed
when she blushes. I didn’t realize how attractive her innocence
could be, really.
I reach up to play with the metal ring above my eye. “What
makes you say that?”
“Like you don’t know. Steph already told me.”
“What, about me and her?” She was okay, sort of
interesting to be around. She has her issues like the rest of us,
but she carries them on her back, hiding them from the world,
unlike Molly and myself. I wonder what the redhead told
Tessa about our time together. I feel like she probably
exaggerated when she told the tale of our escapades. Steph
always wanted more than I could give her, and she fed on
competition, not knowing when to take no for an answer.
“You and her, and you and every other girl,” she chokes
out.
“Well, me and Steph . . . that was fun.” I smile at Tessa and
she looks away.
“And yeah, I have girls that I fuck. But why would that
concern you, friend?”
Admittedly, I imagine Tessa as one of those girls, spread
out beneath me, her mouth open in pleasure. She closes her
eyes and takes a breath. I imagine stealing her breath as she
comes from my fingers and my mouth at the same time. I’m
sure she’s never had someone teasing her clit with their tongue
while slowly sliding—
“It doesn’t,” Tessa says, interrupting my thoughts. “I just
don’t want you to think that I will be one of those girls.” She
shoves me, but that only manages to intensify the fantasy
going on in my mind.
“Aww . . . Are you jealous, Theresa?”
She shoves me again. “No, absolutely not. I feel sorry for
the girls.” Tessa shakes her head and I laugh. She wouldn’t
feel sorry for anyone—she would only feel pleasure, intense
amounts of pleasure that she can’t even imagine.
“Oh, you shouldn’t.” I can’t stop thinking about her naked
body. I need to see what she’s hiding under those baggy
clothes. She wouldn’t know what to do with herself if I got my
hands on her. “They enjoy it, trust me.”
“Okay, okay. I get it. Can we please just change the
subject?” Tessa closes her eyes again and tilts her head back.
She groans before she says, “So, will you try to be nicer to
me?”
“Sure. Will you try not to be so uptight and bitchy all the
time?” I tease.
“I’m not bitchy; you’re just obnoxious.”
We both laugh as she finishes her statement. Her laugh is
soft, floating around me. I feel fluffy, in a weird but nice way.
Fluffy? Really, Hardin?
I need to get my shit together and put this Friendship Train
on the right track.
I lean a little closer to my new friend. “Look at us, two
friends.”
Tessa shrinks back and stands up. Her hands wipe at her
skirt, and I backtrack, thinking about taking that skirt off.
“That skirt really is dreadful, Tess. If we’re going to be
friends, you need to not wear it anymore.” It’s not that bad, but
it’s certainly not good.
Tessa’s eyes flash with embarrassment, and I smile to ease
it. I didn’t mean it as an insult. I was only teasing her. Really,
if she wants to wear unflattering clothing, more power to her. I
wear the same few pairs of black jeans and stained T-shirts.
Tessa’s phone begins to vibrate, and she pulls it out of her
bag. “I need to get back and study,” she announces.
I glance at the ancient clunk of plastic in her hand. Is that a
Nokia?
“You set an alarm to study?” I ask her, pondering the fact
that she must have the last flip phone in existence. It’s like
she’s trying to be outdated or something.
She shrugs. “I set an alarm for a lot of things; it’s just
something I do.”
This behavior makes her shy, as if she should be
embarrassed that she does such a thing. Why would she think
that? Someone in her life must make her feel like she needs to
justify her strange behavior. Her mum, I’m sure. Well, I’m sort
of doing it now, too, but that woman seems anal as hell.
Tessa’s mum probably had an alarm set for Tessa to piss, as
controlling as the woman seems.
“Well, set an alarm for us to do something fun tomorrow
after class,” I say.
I want to spend time with her. I need to.
She looks at me, her eyebrows pushing together in
confusion. “I don’t think my idea of fun is the same as yours.”
She’s not wrong. My idea of fun is definitely different from
hers. Her idea of fun would be to study together, piles of notes
and heavy textbooks spread out on the bed between us. An
academic cock blocking.
My idea of fun is much different. My idea of fun is sitting
on the bed, my back against a headboard while Tessa wraps
her mouth around my cock. I would love to add a cold glass of
whiskey, one ice cube floating in the dark liquid, clicking
against the glass as she draws me deeper into her mouth.
I’m not supposed to be drinking, though, so I suppose I’ll
take the blow job sans the whiskey.
Instead of telling her all this, I say, “Well, we’ll only
sacrifice a few cats, burn down a few buildings . . .”
Tessa giggles, and I can’t help but smile back at her. But
I’m distracted a little when this couple walks by us, holding
hands as they laugh at some lame joke the guy’s made. I didn’t
exactly catch what they were saying, but I know it’s lame
because they’re wearing matching striped socks. Subtly
shoving their relationship into innocent passerbys’ faces. It’s
bullshit, really. Tessa doesn’t even seem to notice them; she’s
staring down at the concrete.
“Really, though, you could use some fun, and since we are
new friends, we should do something fun.”
Before Tessa can refuse me, I turn my back to her and start
off. “Good, I’m glad you’re aboard. See you tomorrow.”
When I cross the street, I look back to see her sitting on the
curb. She didn’t try to refuse me, she agreed to see me
tomorrow, and now I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to
do, because I had planned on her denying me a few times
before I had to actually plan a date thing with her.
When I get to my car, I try to think of what to do with
Tessa. I don’t go out, ever, aside from parties at other people’s
places. Other than that, I’m on campus or in my room, alone.
I start the car and keep trying to think of something to do. A
movie? What type of movie does Tessa like? Something from
a Nicholas Sparks novel, I’m sure. I could sneak my arm
around her. I could buy her popcorn or overpriced chocolate to
impress her. The problem with seeing a movie is that we can’t
talk during it. Someone would complain, and I would end up
getting into some trouble.
Dating rituals were so much less complicated in the past. If
we lived in an Austen novel, I would court her and take her on
chaperoned dates where we would walk through the woods,
and if I felt brave, I would brush her gloved hand with mine.
She would blush and put a finger to her full lips, looking to
our chaperone with a warning in her gray eyes.
Modern dating is much different, and now, if I felt brave, I
would reach down and tease her nipples through her top and
she would move my hand to the warmth between her thighs.
No chaperone, no rules.
I’m interrupted in my planning by my phone ringing.
Does Tessa have my number? Speaking of that, I need to
get her number from Steph.
When it’s Ken’s name that flashes on my phone screen, I
cringe but I answer this time. I suppose I should reward his
persistence.
“Yeah?” I say, turning onto the highway. I tuck my phone
between my cheek and shoulder. The only problem with my
beautiful 1970 Ford Capri is that it doesn’t connect to
Bluetooth.
“Um, Hardin, hey,” he stutters.
He’s confused by me answering. He calls me sometimes,
and I’m convinced that he sees it as a good deed on his part.
He calls to “check in on me” because he knows I won’t
answer, and it makes him look good to make an effort with his
insubordinate son. His new girlfriend probably praises him,
hugging him tightly as she reassures him. “He’ll come around
one day,” she probably promises him. “He’s just angry right
now.”
She would be angry if she had him for an excuse of a dad,
too.
“Hey.” I press the speaker button and rest my phone in the
cup holder.
“How are you, son?” he asks, immediately pressing on my
nerves.
“Fine.”
He clears his throat. “That’s good to hear. I wanted to invite
you over to dinner tomorrow night. Karen’s making a chicken,
and we would really love to have you over.”
He wants me to come over for dinner? Why on earth would
he think I would come to his house to eat chicken with his new
family and talk about how much we all just love each other’s
company. No fucking thanks.
“I have plans tomorrow,” I tell him. I’m not lying this time.
“Oh. Well, you could come by after your plans. Karen’s
making dessert, too.”
“My commitment is for all night,” I tell him. I wonder what
the weather will be like tomorrow. The clouds are gray, as
always in this shitty state. The sun must hate it so much here—
that’s why it’s always raining and dreary.
“Is it supposed to rain tomorrow?” I ask Ken. It’s easier
than looking up the weather forecast myself.
“No, it’s supposed to warm up overnight and the rain’s
gone until next week,” he says.
If I had a normal relationship with the man who helped
create me, I could ask him for suggestions about what to do on
my date. I don’t, though. I can’t.
All I know to ask this man about are what forms the
university needs filled out when. We have nothing in common
and are as far as can be from a place where I would ever ask
him for dating advice.
Maybe Vance has some ideas? I’d rather ask him than
anyone else, I guess.
“I have to go,” I say into the phone, then hang up on Ken
and look up Vance in my phone.
He answers after one ring. “Hardin, what’s up?”
“Do you have any recommendations on where to take
someone?” I ask him. My voice sounds odd as I rush the
words.
“As in a dead body?” He laughs into the phone. I smile.
He’s a jackass.
“No, not this time.” I reach for a way to ask for his help
without mentioning Tessa. “Like to hang out with someone.”
“A date, then?” he assumes.
“No, not exactly. But something like that.”
I don’t know what to call this meeting with Tessa. It’s not a
date. We’re friends.
Friends until I fuck her, I remind myself.
She’s just so prudish. She wears ill-fitting clothing and
barely curses. Where could I take her to get her to lighten up?
I try to think of my favorite memory since I moved to
Washington.
The stream off of Highway 75 is fun. If the weather’s nice,
this could work. The water is pretty shallow, and you can see
the rocks under the water. Would Tessa swim in semi-clean
stream water? Probably not, but I can try.
“Well, I’ve always found nature walks a surefire bet,”
Vance says.
And just like that, I’m reminded of the Bet for the first time
in a few hours.
fourteen
The first time he was alone with her, he knew something was
stirring inside of him. He thought he could fight it, that maybe
he was softening a little, and not only for her, but everyone in
his life . . . he was sure. He had spent his whole life alone, and
he had mastered the craft of avoiding any form of intimacy
beyond sex. He didn’t need friends, and he didn’t have a
functional family to teach him how to interact with people. He
liked that hard part of himself—it kept his life simple. He felt
suffocated during his first encounter with her, but as time
passed and he began to feel something more, something that
could change everything, he vowed to keep the status quo.
He was used to structured solitude, and she was wreaking
havoc on that.
The morning is here, and I barely fucking slept last night. It
wasn’t even the shitty nightmares that kept me awake; it was
Tessa.
She was there when I closed my eyes, and not in the way
I’d have liked her to be. Instead of being naked, making soft
noises as I thrust into her, she was furious and bored during
the trip to the stream I’ve decided we’re taking. In one creepy
movielike scene that my sleepless, stalkerish mind made up,
she stubbed her toe and complained the entire afternoon. In
another, she was bored out of her mind and wanted her lame
boyfriend to drive all the way to campus to get her. When he
arrived, it was like he was all cardigan. A giant cardigan
monster that was both scary and lame.
It’s frustrating the amount of time I’ve wasted thinking
about this girl. None of this is going to matter in a month or
so. If this “date” goes well, I’m hoping to win the Bet in less
than two weeks . . . Hell, if I can charm her enough, maybe at
the stream . . .
My phone alarm rings from across the room, and I climb
out of bed to shut it off.
Today’s the day. My head is already throbbing, and I’m
annoyed by the pressure I feel to make the time I spend with
her work in my favor. I should probably take a shower. As I’m
getting dressed, I briefly wonder what she’s doing right
now . . . is she as stressed as I am? I can imagine so; she’s so
uptight all the time, and she’s probably had me literally
penciled into her planner-binder since the moment I offered to
attempt this friendship thing.
After my shower, I rummage through my drawer to find a
clean black T-shirt. The one I find is wrinkly, but it’ll do.
Outside, as I start my car, I hear a crush beneath my foot and
find an empty water bottle under my gas pedal. In my half-
sleep state, the sound is so irritating that I get back out and
find a place to throw it away.
I really wish I could sleep better.
Getting to campus a little early, I accidentally leave my
textbooks, some notes, and my black jumper in the backseat. I
don’t realize it until I’m halfway to class, but there’s no way
I’m going all the way back.
In Literature, Tessa’s and Landon’s seats are empty when I
take mine, and a little part of me feels pretty damn smug about
it. She’s later than I am, and I somehow know that will irritate
her. Well, you have to find joy in the simple things.
I spend my time looking back and forth between the door
and the list of my missed calls and texts from Molly, Jace, and
this one weird girl whose name I forget. When Tessa and
Landon finally do walk through the door, they’re gabbing
away, and she looks happy and well rested. No purple shadows
under her eyes, no sign of a restless night on her end.
“Are you ready for our date today?” I ask as Tessa’s hip
grazes my desk. The curve of that hip is very appealing. The
curve on the front of women’s thighs, on the side of the hips, is
one of my favorite parts of a female body—it’s just so sexy.
“It’s not a date,” Tessa says to me, then turns to Landon and
adds, “we’re hanging out as friends.”
“Same thing.” I look at her and take note of her choice of
outfit. She’s wearing jeans, tight enough for me to make out
the shape of her thighs and ass. Damn.
Tessa effectively avoids me for the entirety of the class. I
don’t look her way either.
After class, I don’t catch what Landon says to her—the
fucker talks too low—but I hear her reply to him, “Oh, we’re
just trying to get along, since my roommate is his good
friend.”
Just trying to get along, huh?
I take a few steps closer to the Nerdacula and his nerdy-hot
girlfriend. Landon’s fucking polo shirt is tucked into his gray
dress slacks. Does this man even know he’s supposed to be a
broke college student? Oh, wait—he’s not broke. He lives in a
nice big house a short drive from here with the man who is
technically my father, while my mum lives back in England in
a craphole. And what I call home is an old fraternity house full
of sloppy wannabe cool guys who do nothing related to
helping this wonderful community the way their charter
purports that they do. Tessa’s boyfriend would probably be in
a frat. Blond hair, blue eyes, loafers, cardigans. It would be a
match made in heaven, really.
Well, if he learned to drink way, way too much . . .
Landon makes eye contact with me and doesn’t try to
muffle his words. “I know, you’re really a great friend. I’m
just not sure Hardin deserves your kindness.”
Really? And what do I deserve, Landon? A nice new daddy
who doesn’t love liquor more than his only biological son?
“Don’t you have something else to do besides bad-mouth
me? Get lost, man,” I say, as kindly as I can manage. If I said
what I was really thinking, Tessa would cancel our hangout for
sure.
Landon doesn’t respond to me; he only frowns at Tessa,
again saying something too low for me to hear. As he walks
away, she turns to me.
“Hey, you don’t have to be cruel to him—you guys are
practically brothers.” She all but spits out fire.
Practically brothers? What kind of fucked-up world does
this chick live in where Landon and I are anything close to
brothers? We are two strangers who happen to have a third
stranger in common.
“What did you just say?” I ask her through bared teeth.
Just because my piss-poor father moved Landon and his
mummy into a mansion filled with chocolate-chip cookies—
wait . . . how does Tessa know that?
I push my fingers through my hair.
“You know, your dad and his mom?” she answers, looking
very confused. She nods to herself and frowns as if she just let
out a secret.
I look to where Landon disappeared to see if I can chase his
ass down. “That is none of your business.”
Why does he think he has the right to discuss my family’s
business? “I don’t know why the asshole even told you that.
I’m going to have to shut him up, it seems.”
I crack my knuckles and ignore the stinging of tearing skin
on my eternally busted fingers.
She glares at me. “You leave him alone, Hardin.” A real
convincing Warrior Queen, this one. “He didn’t even want to
tell me, but I got it out of him.”
So she knows about my family now? Why is that fair? She
doesn’t need to know anything about me. This is going too far.
The whole thing is.
“So where are we going today?” she asks.
She’s getting too close to me now; her nosiness has gone to
a personal level, and I’m not fucking okay with that. She
probably probed him for answers to other questions about me,
too. Why I don’t live with Ken and his new family, why I
never talk to my dad—she probably even asked what I was
like as a child, and Landon probably spilled all that he’d heard
about me. She’s already judging me, I can tell.
“We aren’t going anywhere; this was a bad idea,” I tell her,
and just leave her ass standing there.
She doesn’t need to get any closer than she already is. She’s
too intrusive, too judgmental. I don’t want anything to do with
this shit anymore. I need to stay the fuck away from this girl.
By the time I get to my car, my head is pounding and my
palms are sweaty. Why did he do that? Why would Landon tell
her about my family? That must mean she knows everything.
Or at least the positive things that Landon would tell her: that
my father’s the chancellor of the college, that he was third in
his class at university, that he loves sports.
What she doesn’t know is that he was a drunk—the worst
fucking kind—because precious Landon doesn’t really know
that side of him.
I wonder if he does in fact know anything at all about the
man, anything real? Has he been totally conned by my dear
old dad?
I would love to be the one to break the news to him over his
mum’s coconut cake.
Suddenly I feel claustrophobic and roll the car window
down to get some air. The handle sticks, and I yank on the
metal rod, annoyed that this beautiful car is so fucking ancient.
I catch my breath after about thirty seconds and finally pull out
of my parking space. If Tessa had followed me, I don’t know
what I would have done.
I’m in my room for less than ten minutes when I get a text
from Molly: Zeds w/ Virgin Barbie in dorm. Better hurry loverboy.
What? How do you know? I reply, wondering why I’m getting
Tessa tips from Molly, of all people . . .
Is she fucking with me?
I don’t kiss and tell.
I can practically hear her mocking tone through the screen
as I push my feet back into my black boots. The insides are so
worn out that I’m waiting to bust through to the street when I
walk around in them, but I’ve had them for years and can’t
seem to find anything else as comfortable.
I know that I’ve gotten everything I’m going to get out of
Molly, so before I pull onto the street, I text Steph, Is Tessa with
Zed?
Her reply is instantaneous. *Nope not here *
I immediately know she’s lying, and press my foot harder
on the gas.
fifteen
When I open the door, Tessa is on Steph’s bed with Zed, with
her own bed empty. A small bed, with Zed. And with Steph
and Tristan, too, and Tessa’s only sitting, nothing more, but
still. She’s with Zed. On a bed. On a bed with Zed.
It sounds like the worst Dr. Seuss rhyme ever.
And it has me seeing red.
“Jeez, man, you could at least knock for once,” Steph says,
trying to play stupid. She knew damn well I would come
straight here. She wanted me to—that’s why she told Molly,
I’m sure of it. I’m just surprised Molly told me, though. Steph
meets my eyes and laughs. “I could have been naked or
something!”
Could’ve been? Has been, her wild eyes tell me. Yeah, I’ve
seen her completely naked, and so I know that her boobs aren’t
half as big as those padded bras she wears make them seem.
Still, she does have one of the nicest asses I’ve ever
touched . . .
I walk farther into the room, and remark, “Nothing I
haven’t seen before.”
Tessa and Tristan both look like someone took a morning
piss in their Cheerios.
“Oh, shut up.” Steph laughs, loving getting the attention
she’s always craving.
“What are you guys up to?” I ask, sitting down opposite
them all on Tessa’s bed. At least Zed didn’t make it to her bed.
I suppose that’s some consolation . . . somehow.
Zed smiles from across the tiny room. Why the fuck is he
smiling?
“We were actually going to go to the movies,” he says.
“Tessa, you should come.”
Tessa looks at me, then at him. She seems nervous. She’s
going to say yes!
“Actually,” I interject before they can finalize anything,
“Tessa and I have plans.”
I look directly at Zed, giving him a warning. He blinks
slowly, challenging me. Tristan is silent when I look at him,
not wanting anything to do with our drama. He’s actually not
too bad, except he’s dating such a witch.
“What?” Zed and Steph both say.
“Yeah, I was just coming to get her.”
But Tessa is sitting still, making no move to leave with me.
“You ready or what?” I say nonchalantly.
She looks so conflicted, like she’s fighting against herself.
Just as I’m ready to make a move to convince her, she nods
and gets up from the bed.
“Well, see you all later!” My voice is too loud, and I push
Tessa out the door so quickly it’s like I’m on speed or
something.
Outside, Tessa follows me, taking quick strides to catch up.
Her legs are pretty long. Her thighs are a little thick. I can’t
stop thinking about holding on to them as I take her while she
bends over the hood of my car. I try not to think about her
when she’s so close. I can feel my cock aching, begging me to
think about how soft she would be, how much I’d just like to
squeeze her . . .
I break out of my thoughts when I realize we’ve reached
my car and I’ve pulled the passenger door open for Tessa on
automatic. However, looking at her, I see she’s not moving to
get in, for some reason. Rather, her arms are crossed in front
of her chest, pushing her tits up.
I’m sure she’s trying to convey anger, but right now this is
just hot.
“Well, I’ll remember not to ever open a door for you
again . . .” I say, giving her a sarcastic eye.
She shakes her head at me, and I know she’s about to spit
fire. “What the hell was that? I know full well you didn’t come
here to get me—you just got done telling me that you didn’t
want to hang out with me!”
She’s yelling now. I look around the parking lot, and it’s not
empty. She doesn’t seem to notice the people close by. Tessa
doesn’t strike me as the public-argument type, even though
we’ve fought twice together in public.
She drives me so fucking crazy.
“Yes, I did come to get you. Now, get in the car.” I gesture
for her to climb inside. I cleaned it and everything—she better
get inside.
“No! If you don’t admit that you didn’t come here to see
me, I’ll go back in there and go to the movies with Zed,” she
says defiantly.
What’s her problem? She says I’m rude, and look how she
speaks to me? Judgmental hypocrite, she is.
What the fuck do I say to that?
Should I tell her that Molly told me? Hell, no—Pinkie will
never tell me shit again. And why would Tessa threaten me
with hanging out with Zed? Does she somehow know about
the Bet? Is she in on it with Steph?
I barely know anything about her, and I can see something
in her is a little off. I bet Steph told her.
“Admit it, Hardin, or I am gone,” she says.
I can’t tell if she’s taunting me or not. She looks genuinely
annoyed, and her nostrils keep flaring—it’s quite comical. I’ll
take this ego hit.
“Okay, fine. I admit it. Now, get in the damned car. I won’t
ask again.” I want to win the Bet, but she’s becoming a messy
project, and I’m not putting much more effort into this before I
hand the trophy over to another classmate. I walk to the
driver’s side of my car, leaving the passenger door open for
her if she wants to get in.
And no surprise, she does.
I’m annoyed as fuck as I pull out of the parking lot. I’d
opted out of this hangout—I got out of it—and now I’m here
with her anyway. My head hurts, and my mind seems to be
fighting against itself. Part of me wants to scream and roll all
the windows down so I can choke on my own breath, but the
other half feels a calm creeping through, slowly, but a calm
filled with stillness. I turn the music up to shut my head off;
that usually does the trick: a few screaming men singing about
death and their own depression over repeating bridges—with
thunderous drum solos adding to the rage.
Tessa doesn’t seem to agree with Slipknot and reaches for
my radio dial. Which takes a lot of fucking nerve.
“Don’t touch my radio.”
“If you’re going to be a jerk the whole time, I don’t want to
hang out with you,” Tessa threatens. She pushes her back
against the leather seat to make a dramatic point.
“I’m not. Just don’t touch my radio.”
I can barely breathe, and the noise is drowning out my
panic. When I look over at her, she’s staring at the radio with
an intense look of rage on her face. That breaks my mood and
makes me want to laugh, though it’s probably not the best time
for that.
“Why do you care if I go to the movies with Zed, anyway?
Steph and Tristan were going, too,” Tessa says, sticking her
chin out to underscore her point.
Oh, like a double date? Hello . . .
“I just don’t think Zed has the best intentions.” I don’t
know what else to say, so I stare at the road.
After a thick moment of silence, Tessa begins to laugh.
What the hell is wrong with her?
“Oh, and you do? At least Zed is nice to me.”
She’s still laughing. Zed is nice to her? Nice?
He’s betting against your virginity, sweetheart is something
I can’t say, though.
Because I guess I am, too.
I stay quiet, and Tessa keeps her guard up. “Can you please
turn it down?” she yells over the music.
I nod. I may as well get her in a little better of a mood.
“That music is terrible,” she complains. I knew she
wouldn’t like it; I can tell by looking at her that she listens to a
certain type of music. Opposite of mine.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and watch as Tessa
absentmindedly does the same to her thighs.
“No, it’s not. Though I would love to know your opinion on
what is good music.”
I smile at the thought of her CD player as a teen: ’N Sync,
Jessica Simpson, and doubtless some of the horrendous girl
groups Mother England spits out on the regular fills the entire
thing.
“Well, I like Bon Iver, and the Fray,” she says after
contemplating the matter for a few seconds.
“Of course you do.” One Christian-based band and one
über-hipster band. Not remotely surprising.
Okay, sure, both make decent music—they just aren’t my
thing. Not enough pain for me.
“What’s wrong with them? They’re insanely talented, and
their music is wonderful.” She’s passionate with her answer.
When my eyes meet hers, she turns away and stares out the
window.
“Yeah . . . they are talented. Talented at putting people to
sleep.”
Tessa reaches her hand out and playfully smacks my arm.
It’s a strange thing I see couples doing all the time, but no one
has ever done it to me.
“Well, I love them.” She smiles proudly. She seems to be
having a decent time. “Where are we going?”
“To one of my favorite places.” I don’t give her an exact
answer. She’s too nosy for her own good.
“Which is where?” She continues to push, like I knew she
would. She’s too anal not to.
“You really have to know everything that’s going on in
advance, don’t you?” I say, turning the tables on her.
“Yeah . . . I like to—” She begins to explain herself.
“Control everything?”
She’s silent.
I decide to let it go for now. I don’t want to push her too far.
“Well, I’m not telling you until we get there . . . which will be
only about five minutes from now.”
As we continue, Tessa looks around, confused. I can see her
struggling to not ask me again. She’s trying to relax, and that
makes this easier for me. After a couple of minutes, I notice
she’s staring at the backseat.
“See something that you like back there?” I tease, and she
shakes her head. A lock of her long hair falls down her
shoulder, and she pushes it back. Her hair looks so soft. I
wonder if she’s a natural blonde, and remembering what her
mum looks like, I’d say she definitely is.
“What kind of car is this?” she asks, staring down at her
cloth shoe.
“Ford Capri—a classic,” I tell her. I love my car more than
my own self, and I’m proud as fuck to have it. Tessa engages
lightly in the conversation as I tell her about the restored
engine and newly quieted exhaust. She smiles and nods along,
and even though I can tell she’s lost, it’s oddly nice to talk to
an actual human. After a few minutes, I glance down at her
again, and she’s staring straight into me. I feel a pressure
building on the back of my neck, creeping down my spine.
Too close. She’s getting too close. It’s a game, Hardin.
Treat her as a piece of it.
“I don’t like to be stared at.” I try to keep a straight face.
She’s so curious, and I’m realizing I’m liking it more than I
should.
sixteen
I drive down one last narrow road and park toward the end of
the small gravel patch nestled between a group of massive
trees. I love it out here; no one ever comes here, and that’s
perfect for me. Especially on a nice, rare day like today when
it’s not raining in the Olympic Peninsula. The dead sky is one
thing I’ve been used to since growing up in Hampstead; the
sun is a rare sighting most fall days.
Tessa glances around the area, then her eyebrows draw
together.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t bring you out here to kill you,” I say,
attempting to evoke a laugh from her as we get out of the car.
She stares toward the field of yellow wildflowers, and her
shoulders slightly relax. What is she thinking?
“What are we going to do here?” she asks me.
“Well, first, a bit of walking.”
Tessa sighs and follows me down the dirt that used to be a
grass path. She looks miserable already. What was I thinking?
“Not too much walking.”
She doesn’t trust me, and she seems to be in a bad mood
today. Go figure. When is she not? I focus my attention on the
cloud of dust that my boots make when they hit the dry, dusty
trail. Tessa’s steps are nearly silent, and she’s incredibly slow.
“Well, if we hurry, we may make it before sundown,” I
tease her when we reach a tree with an old, abandoned bicycle
tied to it. It’s the halfway marker, and the walk is about a mile.
Not too bad. Tessa slows down, but her face when we reach
the water is worth every wasted moment. She gasps a little, as
if this simple stream in the middle of the woods is magical.
Her lips lift and her eyes go wide.
Does she even like swimming? I probably should have
asked her.
I stay quiet and let her take in her surroundings before
asking her anything. Now that we’re alone together, I can’t
think of shit to talk about. Maybe I should just get into the
water? Tessa’s standing in the same spot she was the last time
I looked at her. She’s pushing the dirt around with her shoe to
avoid looking at me.
Fuck this awkward shit. I’m getting into the water.
I pull my T-shirt over my head and listen for the inevitable
whimpering sound to come from Tessa. She doesn’t say much,
but she’s very animated when it comes to matching a sound
track to her expressions. With a smile usually comes a sigh,
with annoyance comes huffing, and with arousal comes her
panting.
“Wait, why are you undressing?” she inquires. I don’t think
she’s aware of just how hard she’s staring at my bare chest.
She clears her throat and asks, “You’re going to swim? In
that?”
She points to the water with a look of disgust. Of course
Little Miss Priss doesn’t want to get her clothes and hair wet.
“Yeah, and you are, too. I do it all the time.” I pop open the
button on my jeans, and Tessa continues to complain.
Still, she watches me undress while doing so.
“I am not swimming in that.”
This water is clearer than most lakes I’ve ever seen,
actually. Which is exactly why I can’t stand stuck-up, snobby
girls who are afraid to get dirt under their manicured nails.
“And why is that? It’s clean enough that you can see the
bottom.” I point toward the sparkling water. I thought she
would be more impressed than she is. The idea that I never
know what she’s thinking unnerves me.
“So . . . there are probably fish and God knows what in
there!” she shrieks.
Fish? Really? That’s what this strange girl is worried
about?
“Besides, you didn’t tell me we were going swimming, so I
have nothing to swim in.”
“You’re telling me you’re the kind of girl who doesn’t wear
underwear?” I smile at her, desperate to see her in such attire.
“Yeah, so go in your bra and panties.” There’s no way in hell
she’s going for that. I can see the anger building behind those
gray eyes, and I can’t wait to hear her reply.
“I am not swimming in my underwear, you creep.” Tessa
sits down on the grass a few feet above the bank. “I’ll just
watch.”
She smiles and crosses her legs.
She’s staring at my body again. This time she’s looking at
the outline of my cock in my boxers. Her cheeks are flushed,
and she’s trying hard to look away, pretending to be focused
on the bundle of grass blades in her hand.
“You’re no fun. And you’re missing out,” I call to her as I
jump into the cold water.
Fuucckk, this water is colder than I thought. I swim out
toward the opposite bank, where the sun hits the water all day
and the temperature changes drastically.
“The water is warm, Tess!” I call to her.
She looks up from the pile of grass blades she’s building to
distract herself. She’s bored out of her fucking mind, and I
don’t have the first idea how to change that. She won’t even
get into the water with me—what am I supposed to do?
“This is one beyond-boring friendship so far . . .”
Tessa rolls her eyes and lifts her head back to the sun.
“At least take your shoes off and put your feet in. It feels
amazing, and pretty soon it will be too cold to swim in.”
Tessa agrees and pulls off her shoes, placing them neatly
beside her. Those shoes she wears are odd—they look like
scraps of cloth taped to a piece of floppy cardboard. They
can’t possibly be comfortable. She rolls her jeans up her legs
and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as she pushes her
feet into the water.
I wait for her to complain, but a wide smile fills her face.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” I ask her.
She looks away, tilting her head farther into the sun.
“So just come in.” I dip my head back into the water and
soak my hair, trying to convince her.
When I lift back up, Tessa is shaking her head. She still
won’t get into the water. Christ, this woman is difficult. I
splash water at her, and she shrieks, scooting back up the
grass. I’ve never been at this place with someone else; it’s a
little weird having company out here.
How can I get her to come in? The entire day will be a huge
waste of time if she doesn’t get into the water. I need to
negotiate with her. But what would she want in return?
She doesn’t seem like the compromising type . . .
“If you come into the water, I’ll answer one of your always-
intrusive questions. Any question that you want, but only
one.” I say my idea out loud the moment it comes into my
mind. She’s so nosy, this will thrill her.
“This offer expires in one minute.” I have to give her a time
limit or she’ll surely take all damn day. I dip under the water
and hold my breath as I swim about twenty feet. Tessa is
probably scowling above the surface. The thought makes me
laugh, and I nearly choke on the water.
“Tessa”—I wish she would just stop thinking so damn
much—“stop overthinking everything, and just jump in.”
She looks down at her outfit. “I don’t have anything to
wear. If I jump in in my clothes, I’ll have to walk back to the
car and ride back soaked.”
“Wear my shirt.” With my offer, she frowns and looks at
the piece of clothing in question lying close by on the grass.
“Go on, just wear my shirt. It will be long enough for you to
wear in the water and you can keep your bra and panties
on . . . if you wish,” I add. I would very much enjoy it if she
didn’t wear her bra or panties, but it’s up to her, of course.
Tessa looks around again, taking in the water and my half-
naked body before she reaches down and plucks my shirt from
the ground. I win.
“Fine.” She’s such a bratty little thing. She rests her hand
on her hip and continues her negotiation. “But turn around and
don’t look at me while I’m changing—I mean it!”
The little roaring kitten is back. I laugh, and she does this
weird little thing with her hips, moving them back and forth as
she pushes my black shirt between her thighs to hold while she
lifts her shirt up over her head. I quickly turn around. I’m a
gentleman—really, I am.
“Hurry the hell up or I’ll turn around,” I impatiently remark
after silently counting to thirty. I sneak a look at her while
she’s bending down to set her jeans perfectly in line with her
shoes. She’s a complete psychopath, lining her shoes up like
that. For a few seconds I wonder how she’d react if I tossed
her shoes into the calm water. She’d be so pissed. I bite back a
smile and finally look at her body. Her legs are tan—that’s the
first thing I notice. My T-shirt fits her body perfectly. Fuck,
because of the size of her tits, the shirt barely touches the top
of her thighs. I pull my lip ring between my teeth and enjoy
the view in front of me.
“Um . . . come into the water, yeah?” I try to clear my
throat and stop staring at the top of her thighs. “Just jump in!”
“I am! I am!”
“Get a little running start.”
“Okay.”
Tessa takes a deep breath before galloping toward the water
in an awkwardly stiff run. She squeals and covers her face
when she reaches the edge and stops one step before she
would actually go over the edge.
“Oh, come on! You were off to such a good start!” My
laughter fills the air between us, and I look at Tessa again.
She’s staring at me, smiling and laughing in the sunlight, and it
confuses me. What are we doing here? Laughing at each other
at a stream? What is this? One of those Nicholas Sparks
movies where the couple’s fighting is so cute that the trailer
for the film spreads like wildfire on the internet? Bored
women thinking they have some literary hero to come save
them. It’s bullshit, and they always, always end up with a
shitty husband who doesn’t and will never care about them or
their family more than himself.
“I can’t!”
She looks pretty frantic. Is she actually scared of the water?
Good Lord. “Are you afraid?” I ask her.
“No . . . I don’t know. Sort of.”
I walk through the water to get closer to her. I stub my toe
on a large rock at the bottom of the stream.
“Sit on the edge and I’ll help you in,” I offer. I reach for her
as she scoots closer. She tries to hide her panties by clamping
her legs together, and I appreciate the effort. The last thing I
need is a distraction.
My hands grip her thighs, and my cock immediately
responds.
Fuck her for having such soft, beckoning thighs that I’m
dying to get my face between.
“Ready?” I take a breath and move my hands to her waist.
Her hips mold to my hands, and I have to forcefully hold on to
my last bit of self-control. My hands are itching to squeeze her
hips, bend her over, and take her here.
What’s my problem? I’m never this much of a horny frat
boy. Is it her innocence and sinful body, or is it the competitive
drive to win her body, to beat Zed?
Her skin is warm as she sinks into the water, and I let go of
her. The water hits just below her chest. She sprawls her hands
out in front of her and feels out the water. Her skin is covered
in tiny goose bumps accentuated by the sunlight.
“Don’t just stand there.” I need you to move so I don’t just
stand here and stare at you all fucking day.
She seems to ignore me, but she does move out farther into
the stream. As she pushes through the clear water, the T-shirt
lifts up from the water as if trying to take flight. Before I can
look away, Tessa shoves the wet fabric down, smoothing it
underwater the best she can.
“You could just take it off,” I say. I sure as hell wouldn’t
complain.
Tessa scrunches up her nose and slices her hand through the
water—she fucking splashed me? It’s annoying how funny
this is to me.
“Did you just splash me?”
Tessa giggles and smacks her hands across the settling
water.
I shake the liquid from my hair and lunge at her. I grasp her
waist, tugging her under the water. Her small hand reaches up
and plugs her nostrils. She still holds her nose?
I laugh, hard. “I can’t decide which is more amusing: the
fact that you are actually having a good time or the fact that
you have to plug your nose underwater.” I can barely talk from
laughing so hard.
Tessa moves toward me, the look of a woman on a mission
clear in her eyes. Her arms lift above her head, and she
attempts to push my head under the water. It’s a comical
attempt. At best. While I tried to ignore the way my T-shirt
floated up around her body, now I don’t budge, and she laughs
at herself and my stomach cramps from joining in. Her
laughter is soft; it reminds me of the yellow wildflowers I saw
at the beginning of our date-thing.
“I believe you owe me an answer to a question,” she
pushes. I knew she wouldn’t forget, but I assumed she’d wait a
little longer before asking.
“Sure, but only one.”
She’s probably going to ask something stupid, like “Did
your tattoos hurt?” I stare at the grassy bank of the stream and
wait for her intrusion.
Her voice breaks through the silence. “Who do you love the
most in the world?”
What the fuck?
What kind of question is that? How fucking strange. I don’t
want to answer it. I don’t even have an answer. Now I’m
growing even more suspicious of her and Landon’s
conversations about me. Love? Who do I love the most in the
world?
Who do I love most? Well, I love my mum, I guess. I
haven’t said the words to her in years, but she’s still my mum.
That’s about it, except for myself. I love myself the most. I
don’t think that “I love myself the most” would qualify as an
answer, however.
Nevertheless: “Myself,” I answer truthfully. I wasn’t one to
have any girlfriends as a puberty-stricken teen, so I never even
had to fake any I love you’s before I or anyone else my age
actually knew what the word meant. I dive under the water to
disappear for a few seconds while Tessa’s brain tallies up her
assumptions about me.
“That can’t be true,” she says the very second I feel the
fresh air hit my skin. “What about your parents?” And like
that, she crosses the line. Tessa Young has no fucking
boundaries when it comes to her invasive personal questions.
Her eyes are soft, her lips parted as she waits for me to
respond. I hate the way her eyes look when they’re full of pity.
Stop it, Theresa.
“Do not speak of my parents again, got it?”
“I’m sorry, I was just curious. You said you would answer a
question.” Her voice is quiet. “I really am sorry, Hardin. I
won’t mention them again,” she apologizes.
I’m not sure if I believe her. She’s up to something, I can
feel it. She’s too intuitive and way too pushy. I don’t even
know her, and she sure as hell doesn’t know me. Why does she
keep thinking that she can ask such personal shit?
This afternoon is going to go one of two ways: with her and
I fighting until she rushes into her dorm room in a pissed-off
panic, or with me charming her, making her want to be around
me.
I decide to keep it civil. I would rather not spend the drive
back in awkward silence. I push my hands out toward her and
lock my arms around her waist. Her body is light in the water
when I lift her into the air and toss her to the side. She shrieks,
and her arms flap around in the air like a bird. She pops up out
of the water, her hair soaked and her eyes wild.
She’s happy.
This could have gone one of two ways, and somehow I
made her happy.
“You’re going to pay for that!” she calls out cheerily, and
wades toward me. She may actually believe that she has a
chance at retaliation. Tessa moves even closer to me, water
trickling down her face. Her skin is wet and shining, and why
is she still moving closer?
I gasp when Tessa’s thighs wrap around my waist and she
lifts her body to line up to mine. I’m supposed to be in charge
here.
She tenses and loosens her legs. “Sorry.”
No, no.
I grip them, coercing her to put them back around my body.
She feels so good pressed up against me, so warm. When she
wraps her small arms around my neck, a twinge of panic
flickers at the bottom of my spine. I look at her and try to read
her mind. It’s impossible.
“What are you doing to me, Tess?” I wonder while slowly
grazing her trembling bottom lip with my thumb. Her hot
breath comes out in low, deep puffs. The taste of her mouth is
still fresh in my memory. I want another taste, need it.
“I don’t know . . .”
She doesn’t know. I don’t know either. Neither of us has a
grip on this, and it could escalate quickly.
I want it to.
Does this girl have any idea how sexy she is? Does she
know that the shape of her mouth alone is enough to make me
imagine very, very dirty things involving her? Picturing Tessa
on her knees in front of me, her full lips open wide, tongue wet
and eager to take me, to please me. I want to press my cock
against her lips and tease the fuck out of her. I can drive her
body insane, the way she’s doing to mine. Her lips are a light
pink shade, and the curve of her top lip is dramatic, like the
lips drawn on a cartoon character. A sexy one, though, like
Jessica Rabbit.
Fuck, I’m losing my damn mind over her. This can’t be a
good thing.
I guess it’s fortunate that I have no qualms about being bad.
“These lips . . . the things you could do with them.” I pause,
remembering the way her mouth sucked at mine in my room
and again in hers. “Do you want me to stop?” I stare at her,
looking for any signs of nervousness. Her thighs tighten
around my body, and I take that as a no, but give her a few
seconds to respond before I make my move.
She wiggles even closer, pressing her body against mine
under the water.
“We can’t just be friends—you know that, don’t you?”
At my words, she inhales a quick breath as I lean into her,
pressing my lips softly against the line of her jaw near her
chin. Her eyelids flutter closed, and I move my lips across her
jawline, traversing her wet skin with affection. When my
mouth touches the spot on her neck, just below her ear, a moan
rises from her, surprising me. “Oh, Hardin.”
The words send a shock through me. Her voice is so thick,
so needy. For me. She’s putty in my arms, and my heart is
racing at the idea of molding her pleasure around me. She’s
never been fucked, though I’m sure she’s at least gotten herself
off before.
I want to hear her moan my name again, just like I need to
taste her mouth again.
“I want to make you moan my name, Tessa, over and over
again. Please let me.” My own voice is unfamiliar as I beg her.
It’s silent except for her heavy breathing and the low swish
of the water moving around our bodies in a calm wave. She
nods.
“Say it, Tessa,” I continue. I pull her earlobe between my
teeth and gently bite down on her skin. She whimpers and
rocks against me as she nods furiously.
A nod won’t do, Theresa. You want this, so tell me. “I need
you to say it, baby, out loud, so I know you really want me to.”
My hands move to her stomach and under my shirt covering
her body.
“I want to . . .” Tessa’s declaration is rushed, desperate. I
smile against the warm skin on her neck, and she sighs. Those
three words are invitation enough for me. I hold on to her
body, and she tenses—nervous that I may drop her, I assume. I
begin to walk out of the water with Tessa attached to me. Her
thighs are open, and she’s pressing against my hardening cock
with every step I take.
I let go of her as we reach the bank, and she whines,
literally whines. The sound sends my blood straight to my
groin. I climb up the bank and turn around to help her out of
the water. She reaches for me; her eyes are set on my bare
chest. I watch as her eyes shift to the tattoo on my stomach,
the dead tree inked into my skin. She probably hates my
tattoos, coming from whatever prissy little town she came
from. Her God-fearing mum probably taught her that people
with tattoos are evil and will eat her soul or some shit.
Tessa’s probably used to seeing her clean-skinned, perfectly
groomed boyfriend’s chest. I watch closely as she continues to
stare, attempting to decipher my ink. Her boyfriend has no
tattoos, I’m sure of it. He probably doesn’t even have a single
scar on his skin, or in his mind.
I move away from her, and she stands still, waiting for
instruction.
I find myself unsure what to do with her. She’s still staring
at my skin . . . Why is she still staring at my skin? More
importantly, why does it bother me so much? I got my tattoos
for me, not for some judgmental chick.
Why the fuck am I justifying myself right now? I never
give a shit what women think of me; I only think about
fucking them and how they come undone from my touch, in a
mutually distracting kind of way.
Stop thinking, Hardin. I’m just like her, overthinking
everything. What is she doing to me?
I cut to the chase: “Do you want it to be here? Or in my
room?”
Should I fuck her here? I could lay her on the grass, spread
those thighs, and have her crying my name out as I draw
circles on her clit with my tongue.
Tessa shrugs as I adjust my boxers. “Here,” she decides.
“Eager?” I ask her. I can feel the pull of her body to mine
and wonder if she’s feeling it, too. I know she’s turned on by
me, that’s obvious, but does she feel this overwhelming call to
touch me, the way I do for her?
“Come here,” I order. She obliges with flushed cheeks and
slow steps toward me. Faster . . . I want to rush her.
I don’t have the patience to play teasing games now—I
need to feel her. I need her to feel me. I’m going to fuck her,
here on the grass. I’m going to lay her down and touch every
inch of her sinfully gorgeous body. My black shirt is soaked,
completely molded to her body like a latex glove. It needs to
go.
I tug at the bottom of the shirt and bring it up over her head.
It’s not an easy task, removing the wet fabric; it seems to want
to stay on her, the way that I do.
The first part of our day was catered to her way of doing
things and giving her a nice, simple day with me. The second
part will go my way. I’m not used to making conversation or
being asked about who I love most in the world. What I am
used to is using a soft body to give pleasure to mine.
seventeen
He was about to win. He was ready to win.
And then he realized he wasn’t ready for her at all.
I spread the wet T-shirt over the grass as a makeshift blanket
for her to lie down on. My fingers are shaking.
“Lie down,” I instruct, and help her onto the ground with
me. I lie on my side next to her and prop myself up on my
elbow to get a good look at her. Her body is exposed to me,
her full breasts on display; her slightly tanned skin is literally
glistening in the sun. She’s a juicy, bright red apple, waiting
for me to take a bite. I’ve seen many, many women much
more naked than this, but fuck if Tessa isn’t in a league of her
own. As I’m admiring the curve of her hips all the way up to
her perky tits, two small hands attempt to interrupt my visual
tour. I sit up; the grass is soft beneath me, one good thing
about the damn rain here.
I wrap my fingers around her wrists and push them down to
her sides. “Don’t ever cover up,” I tell her. Her eyes meet
mine, and I add, “Not for me.”
“It’s just . . .” Her cheeks flare, and she looks away. I don’t
let her finish her ridiculous statement.
“No, you will not cover up—you have nothing to be
ashamed of, Tess.” She doesn’t look convinced. Who fucked
up her confidence? “I mean it, look at you.”
“You’ve been with so many girls . . .” Of course she would
bring this up. Why does she care if I’ve been with other girls;
we aren’t in a relationship and never will be. None of the girls
I’ve been with were like Tessa; a few of them were similar, but
I don’t typically go for the innocent, never-been-fucked-before
girls. I like my women already experienced enough to fuck me
like they know what they’re doing. I’m no one’s teacher,
especially not in the art of sex.
Aside from Natalie, I’m reminded by that annoying little
voice in the back of my head. Natalie, the sweet church girl
with an ass too big not to be admired and hair black as oil. She
was so inexperienced she couldn’t even get the condom on my
dick. Attending Sunday school every week since she came out
of the womb hadn’t taught her that.
“None like you,” I say when I look back down at her. She
seems nervous, so deliciously new, and I want to be buried
inside of her.
“Do you have a condom?” Tessa’s voice drops in volume
when she says “condom.” Has she ever even seen one? Natalie
had only in the dark.
Why the fuck am I thinking about Natalie right now?
I can fuck Tessa now and win this entire thing. I can sink
into her pure body and take what I came here for. She’s staring
at me now. Expecting. She thinks I’m the guy who takes
chicks out here to fuck them in the woods. Especially the ones
who have never had sex before.
“A condom?” I laugh, deciding right in that moment that
fucking just isn’t happening here. “I’m not going to have sex
with you,” I say even though I want to.
“Oh,” Tessa says in an ashamed voice. “Where are you
going to—”
Why would she assume we should leave because I won’t
fuck her?
“Oh . . . No, Tess, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that
you’ve never done anything . . . like at all, so I’m not going to
have sex with you.” I try to detect if she believes me, then add,
“Today.” A little of the redness on her flushed cheeks
dissolves.
“There are many other things I want to do to you first.”
And there sure as hell are. I’m going to make her beg for me. I
need her body to surrender to my touch. Every inch of her will
belong to me in this moment. I have her lying here, body
exposed and ready, and I’m going to make the best of it, for
her.
I climb on top of her, and she shakes a little when drops of
water fall from my hair onto her face. I smile, watching her
close her eyes, expecting more drops.
“I can’t believe no one has fucked you before.” I mean
every word. I want to push my covered body onto hers so she
gets a small idea of what it would be like if I was going to fuck
her today. I prop myself up on my elbow and place my hand
on Tessa’s neck, gently running only my fingertips between
her ample breasts. They look so soft, big enough that I could
fuck them, more than a handful, but they keep themselves
supported, creating a perfect set of perky tits. Her nipples are
hard pebbles waiting for my mouth to suck on them. If I stop
here to admire them with my touch, I’ll never keep my dick to
myself. Thank God she’s wearing a bra.
My fingers trail down her stomach, the soft, modest curve
of her stomach. Gooseflesh covers her skin, and she sighs. I
dip into her panties, briefly rubbing my thumb against the
lining. My fingers drift over her pussy, searching through her
wetness to find her clit.
“Does that feel good?” I ask, and take the bud between my
thumb and forefinger.
She doesn’t respond. She’s wet and swollen; her body is
surrendering itself to me with only a touch. I’ve only just
begun showing her how I can make her feel. I lean my head
down and skim my lips across hers.
“Does it feel better than when you do it?” I ask. I release
her clit and run a single finger down her slit. I wonder what
gets her off when she’s alone. Does she come from rubbing
her clit or fingering herself? I get the feeling she’s more of a
clit girl, straight to the point.
“Does it?” I ask again.
“Wh-what?”
“When you touch yourself. Does it feel like this?”
She still doesn’t answer . . . Why would she not just tell
me?
It’s hot, so fucking hot, to picture her lying on her dorm
bed, legs spread and her small fingers teasing herself. She’d
have to keep quiet because her roommate is asleep, but she
would work herself to orgasm and cover her own mouth with
one hand. Sometimes, when she comes hard, she may even
bite down on her full lip and swallow her own gasps as she
returns to reality. I need to know how she does it, but she’s still
staring at me like I’ve grown an extra head. All I did was ask
her about how she masturbates.
Oh.
It dawns on me that Little Miss Priss has never made
herself come.
“Wait . . . you’ve never done that either, have you?” I ask. I
continue to tease her, enjoying the pool of her arousal coating
my finger. “You’re so responsive to me, so wet.”
She moans. The sound is fucking exquisite. I pay attention
to her clit again and gently pinch before rolling it between my
wet fingers.
“What? Was . . . that?” Tessa’s voice is nothing but a warm
whisper, all resistance dissolved at my touch. I repeat the
pleasurable pinch and roll while rubbing in small circles with
my thumb. Tessa’s panting now, her legs are stiffening, and I
know she’s close. So close. I can’t wait to watch her lose
herself for me. I can’t believe she’s never felt the pure
euphoria that comes with sex. Fuck, she’s been missing out.
Her back arches off the grass, lifting her tits closer to my
face. Just one lick wouldn’t hurt.
Yes, it would. I would be distracted. I kiss her again, this
time in earnest, claiming her and giving her exactly what she
needs. I’m providing her with something she’s never felt
before. She’s inching out of ordinary reality, and I’m the cause
of it. My touch. Me.
I push my free hand into her bra, cupping a perfect breast. I
massage it, letting her feel more than one sensation at a time.
Her legs are shaking now.
“That’s right, Tessa, come for me,” I encourage her. Her
lying on the grass, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, flushed
cheeks, and her eyes . . . those eyes are fucking wild.
“Look at me, baby,” I beg, nipping at the flesh overflowing
from her bra.
“Hardin,” she moans, her voice thick like paste, refusing to
let me look away. She’s so sexy, so erotic, without even the
slightest attempt at being so.
“Hardin . . .” She pulls me closer as she utters my name.
She’s breathing so hard, trying to regain her composure.
“I’ll give you a minute to recover,” I say as I slowly draw
my hand out of her panties. A slick trail of her orgasm is
glistening on her stomach where my hand rests. She sighs, and
I move my hand to my boxers to wipe them clean.
I’m so fucking hard right now I can barely see straight.
She’s still lying here, her face looking like she just had the
time of her life. She would like more, I know she would. Lord
knows I would give it to her in a fucking heartbeat. Every part
of me wants to slide inside of her. I want to hear her gasps and
feel her tightness around me.
Not today. I can’t today. I stand to my feet and grab my
jeans and shoes from the bank.
I can feel Tessa’s eyes on me as I get dressed again. “We’re
leaving already?” Her voice is quiet, laced with uncertainty.
Does she want me to make her come again? Greedy now
that she knows how incredible her body can feel.
“Yeah . . . You wanted to stay longer?”
“I just thought . . . I don’t know. I thought maybe you
would want something . . .”
She looks humiliated. Why would she? Is she already
regretting that she allowed me to make her come?
I should’ve known she would.
Tessa shifts her body, covering herself from me. She’s
already trying to rush away from me. Wait, she said she
thought I might want something . . .
“Oh, no. I’m okay.”
I would fucking love to have your warm tongue teasing the
head of my cock right now, but it’s not part of this plan.
But instead of that, I add, “Not now,” to be sure she knows
I’m going to thoroughly enjoy it when it does happen. Tessa
nods and pulls her jeans over her legs and her shirt over her
head.
Watching her get dressed messes with my head. I want to
stroll over and undress her again. She shifts on her heels like
she’s uncomfortable between her thighs. She shouldn’t be
sore; I didn’t enter her at all. She’s probably not used to having
a puddle of her own come there. The thought makes me laugh
and turns me on so damn much at the same time.
“IS SOMETHING WRONG?” I ask Tessa in the car as I pull
onto the gravel road. The sun has gone down slightly, and the
air is growing wet. Rain is coming soon.
“I don’t know. Why are you being so weird now?”
Weird? How?
“I’m not, you are.”
“No, you haven’t said a word to me since . . . you know.”
She’s too shy to be specific.
I say it for her. “Since I gave you your first orgasm?”
“Um, yeah. Since that, you haven’t said anything. You just
got dressed and we left. It makes me feel like you’re using me
or something.”
Using her? For what?
Oh, I am using her. Goddamnit.
But she doesn’t know that. It’s only her insecurity making
her think that way.
“What? Of course I’m not using you. To use someone, I
would have to be getting something out of it.” I half laugh.
When I look over at her, she isn’t laughing. Her eyes are
red, and a single tear falls down her cheek. Fuck.
She’s crying?
“Are you crying? What did I say?” I don’t understand her.
Why is she so emotional, and why does it make me feel so
guilty? She takes everything I say and twists it into something
rude. She thinks so little of me, and I can’t really blame her.
She’s so sensitive.
“I didn’t mean it like that—I’m sorry. I’m not used to
whatever is supposed to happen after messing around with
someone, plus I wasn’t going to just drop you off at your room
and have us go our separate ways. I thought maybe we could
get some dinner or something? I’m sure you’re starving.” I
squeeze her thigh with my hand. She smiles at me, and the
ache in my chest calms tremendously.
“So what type of food do you like?” I ask her. I don’t know
where to take her. I’ve never gone out to eat alone with a
woman before. Sad, I know, but most of my time with women
takes place elsewhere.
Tessa wraps her tangled hair around her hand to pull it up. I
think I may like her hair up . . . it’ll give me a better view of
her face. “Well, I like anything, really, as long as I know what
it is—and it doesn’t involve ketchup.”
“You don’t like ketchup? Aren’t all Americans supposed to
be wild for the stuff?” What an odd girl she is.
“I have no idea, but it’s disgusting.”
She’s so sure and proud and unwavering in her hatred of
ketchup. It’s comical.
She laughs with me. “Let’s just stick with a plain diner,
then?”
When the car grows too silent, I ask, “So what do you plan
on doing after college?”
Shit, I already asked her this. I’m fucking terrible at
conversation.
“I’m going to move to Seattle immediately, and I hope to
work at a publishing house or be a writer. I know it’s silly.”
She looks down at her hands. It’s not silly; I have the same
dream. “But you already asked me that before, remember?”
“No, it’s not silly. I know someone over at Vance
Publishing; it’s a bit of a drive, but maybe you should apply
there for an internship. I could talk to the boss.” Vance would
kill to have someone as bright as Tessa around that place.
“What? You’d do that for me?” She’s astounded. I can hear
it in her voice.
“Yeah, it’s not a big deal.” I shrug my shoulders. I hate the
attention I’m getting right now. I can just feel Tessa gushing
from the other seat. It’s not a big deal, getting someone an
internship at Vance. I would help anyone. Really, I would.
“Wow, thank you. Really. I need to get a job or an
internship soon anyway, and working at a publishing house
would literally be a dream come true!” She claps her hands.
Literally claps them together, like a child who’s just won a
giant bear at the fair. It makes me want to smile.
AS I PARK, Tessa looks a little unsure about the diner, and I
watch her eyes take in the outdated appearance.
“The food here is amazing,” I promise her, and climb out of
the car. The diner is nearly empty when we sit down. A stubby
older woman brings our menus, and I try to look anywhere but
at Tessa.
She starts a conversation with me after we order our meals.
She tries to pry into my childhood, but I don’t allow it.
“My dad drank a lot; he left when I was younger,” she
blurts out suddenly.
I don’t say anything, I just frown at my plate and try not to
picture her as a little girl, hiding from her version of my
fucked-up dad.
I stay inside my head during the drive back, focusing my
attention on using my fingers to draw small shapes on Tessa’s
leg.
“Did you have a nice time?” Tessa asks when we get to
campus. Her question is full of expectation.
A nice time was certainly had. I would like to have another
nice time with her, making her moan my name as I finger-fuck
her over and over.
But instead of all that I say, “Yeah, I did, actually . . .
Listen, I would walk you to your room, but I don’t want to
play twenty questions with Steph . . .”
I shift in my seat to look at her. She’s disappointed even
though she’s trying really hard to keep that fake smile on her
face.
“It’s fine. I’ll just see you tomorrow,” she says with regret.
I can tell she doesn’t want to go, and the thought pleases
me. She stares at me, waiting for me to say something. I don’t
speak, but I reach up and grab a loose strand of her hair and
tuck it behind her ear. I don’t have much to say, but I want to
feel her again. I want to feel this overwhelming calm she
brings with her when she touches me. She turns her cheek so
it’s resting in my palm, and she looks like a younger version of
herself, open and waiting for me. I tug at her arms, asking her
to come closer. I need her closer. She obliges and climbs over
the center console and straddles my lap. My body is warm
from the afternoon sun, and Tessa’s hands are greedily tracing
the ink on my stomach over my thin shirt. Each touch of her
fingertips sends another steady flicker through me.
I tease her tongue with mine, taking everything she’ll give
me. I wrap my arms around her back, pulling her as close to
me as possible. It’s still not enough. I need more of her. I can’t
get enough of this girl. My hands travel up her warm stomach,
and we’re interrupted by the most obnoxious ring tone.
“Another alarm?” I ask her as she digs into her purse. The
screen on her ancient phone is small, but big enough for me to
see a name flashing across the screen: NOAH.
Her precious little high school boyfriend is calling her
while she’s in my car with her tongue down my throat. She
presses ignore and smiles up at me. Really? Guess she’s not as
innocent as I thought. A good orgasm seemed to pluck out her
morals, one moan at a time.
It dawns on me that she’ll never tell him any of what
happened today. Not a word. She’s going to kiss me, get out of
my car, and go call her preppy little boyfriend the moment she
gets into her room. She’s going to tell him she loves him. He’ll
say it back, and she’ll smile the way she did when I kissed her.
She licks her lips and leans across the center console to kiss
me again.
No, no.
“I think I better go.” I sigh and stare out the windshield.
“Hardin, I ignored the call,” she says, defensive. “I’m going
to talk to him about all this. I just don’t know how or when—
but it will be soon, though, I promise.”
Well, I was wrong about her morals disappearing, but this is
worse than I thought. She spent one afternoon with me, and
now she’s going to break up with her childhood lover boy in
hopes that I’ll be his replacement?
No, no.
No.
The air in the car is thickening, clogging my throat, as
Tessa waits for my response.
“Talk to him about what?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t feed
this puppy more than I already have.
“All of this.” Her hand waves around the car, stirring up the
thick air, and I’m convinced I’m going to fucking choke on it.
What was I thinking doing this shit with her? I should’ve just
fucked her, no cute little lunch debate over ketchup, no talks
about our future plans. As women always do, she now wants
to be a part of my life. She’s her own brand of crazy if she
thinks this could actually happen. “Us,” she adds.
She’s using words like us, and it’s fucking terrifying. “Us?
You’re not trying to tell me you’re going to break up with
him . . . for me, are you?” She feels heavier on my lap now, a
solid reminder of why virgins aren’t my thing. Even Natalie
wasn’t a first-timer; she had given her virginity to a boy from
her church while “experimenting.”
“You don’t . . . want me to?” Tessa frowns in confusion.
Christ, this is going downhill fast.
“No, why would you? I mean, yeah, if you want to dump
him, go for it, but don’t do it on my behalf.”
“I just . . . I thought—”
“I already told you that I don’t date, Theresa.”
She flinches, hurt by my words. This is messier than I
thought it would be. Part of me wants to tell her I don’t mean
to be a dick, that it’s ingrained into every fiber of me to be this
way, it’s not my fault. Or hers. Except it is my fault—it’s my
fault that I just don’t have the slightest bit of whatever it is that
makes people want to pair off and live happily ever after
whilst frolicking through wildflower patches. I’m simply not
capable.
“You’re disgusting.” She climbs off of my lap and quickly
gathers her phone and bag. Her absence on my lap nags at me.
So does the deep gray storm that has brewed in her eyes. “Stay
away from me from now on—I mean it!” she shouts and runs
off.
Natalie’s voice saying the exact same words to me, eyes
full of tears, blasts through the speakers in my mind. Tessa’s
eyes are glossy, but she’s holding it together for her pride.
We’re alike in this way; the enormous, irrational amount of
pride we both have could be dangerous.
Tessa opens the car door and climbs out without even
looking back at me. She does her best to slam the door and
hurries across the parking lot. I immediately pull out and turn
the dial up on my stereo. I need the noise to silence the
hurricane gathering in my mind. My hands are itching, my
mind racing.
Natalie, Theresa, Natalie, Theresa.
Natalie standing on the porch at my mum’s house in
Hampstead, a book bag covered in floral print clutched to her
chest and her bloodshot eyes full of thick tears.
“Please, Hardin,” she cried. “I have nowhere to go.” She
was begging. A puff of smoke clouded in the cold air in front
of her as she spoke. I couldn’t bring myself to let her in. I just
couldn’t. I had heard that her family and church had exiled her,
kicking her out of both of her lifelong sanctuaries. She looked
so young in that moment; her blue eyes were shining through
the darkness as she waited, hoping I would change my mind.
I wouldn’t, though, I fucking couldn’t. I couldn’t let her
stay at my house. My mum was barely home, and that would
leave her with me all the time. What could I do for her? I
didn’t want to have anything to do with her, and even if I had,
I couldn’t really do shit to help her. My dad was a drunk who
would wake her as he stumbled into the musty house, its walls
stained with cigarette smoke the odor of which had
permanently seeped into the upholstered furniture. Where
would she sleep if he suddenly came back? He’d been gone for
a few years, but my childish mind believed that he could
return. I was a damn fool.
Now he is in fact back, and he has a nice little family in a
big house, and I hate how often this thought crosses my mind.
I’ve already moved to another country to live close to him, and
now he’s become embedded in my thoughts what feels like all
fucking day.
A honking noise pulls me back to the present, and I quickly
jerk the steering wheel, causing a minivan to honk at me again.
My eyes aren’t focused; the world outside the windshield is a
blur.
Blinking a few times, I reach for the volume dial on the
stereo. I need to pull off to the side of the road. My chest is
aching, a steady, thick pounding of muscle inside of me. My
bones are rattling from the force of it. I can feel beads of
sweat, tears maybe, soaking my skin. Embarrassed, I wipe at
them.
“Fuck!” I shout into the thick air. I need air. My throat feels
like it’s closing as I throw open the door. The cool fall air
tunnels through, calming my breathing.
Natalie’s face is fresh in my mind. Tessa joins her, and the
girls are laughing at me, snorting and teasing me. They’re
mocking the way they have this power over me. Tessa’s
knowing smile brightens, and Natalie fades out. What the fuck
is happening to me? I need to stay away from Tessa, no matter
what stupid bet I made or how stupid I’ll look when Zed wins.
Zed.
He’s always a factor. I can’t stand the thought of him
having her. His body, beads of sweat on his skin as he presses
his body against hers.
I close my eyes and rest my burning cheek against the cool
steering wheel. What a goddamn mess I got myself into.
WHEN I NEXT GO TO class, Tessa isn’t sitting in her seat.
It’s empty, along with Landon’s. I sit down and pull out my
phone. One text from Logan inviting me to a drink during
lunch hour. I decline and push my phone back into the pocket
of my black jeans. They’re a little snug, but it works. My legs
are too long to wear loose-fitting pants without looking like a
clown. I do have a pen stain—or perhaps it’s some sort of
makeup that won’t wash out—on the sleeve of my white T-
shirt. I didn’t want to do laundry, and some of the shit women
put on their faces has to be biohazardous at best.
I’m distracted from the disgusting truth about my hygiene
when Tessa comes through the door. I stare straight at her,
willing her eyes to meet mine as she walks toward the front
row. I’m surprised that she didn’t pick a new seat. I do believe
her hatred toward me is that strong right now.
“Tess?” I whisper across the small space between our seats.
She ignores me, but I noticed her shoulders flinch when I said
her name.
“Tess?” She swallows, and her chest is moving at an
unnaturally slow pace. The tension is clear between us; I can
feel it buzzing, radiating from us.
“Do not speak to me, Hardin.” She squares her shoulders to
let me know she means business.
“Oh, come on.” I try to cajole her with a smile, but she’s
not having it.
She licks her lips and says, “I mean it, Hardin, leave me
alone.”
“Fine, have it your way.” If she wants to be difficult, I can
be difficult, too. Oh, I’m the fucking king of difficult.
Landon comes into the conversation looking like an
anxious little puppy. “You okay?” he asks Tessa.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She nods and shifts so more of her back is
facing me.
THE WEEK PASSES with sleepless nights and irresistible
calls from dusty bottles under the sink. It’s becoming harder
and harder to ignore their siren song. By Friday I’m fucking
exhausted. I look and feel like shit. When I get to Literature,
Landon is sitting at his desk, and his eyes meet mine
immediately.
“I need to talk to you,” he insists. I glance around to see
who else he could possibly be talking to. No way it’s me, but
Tessa only now walks through the door, so maybe?
“Yes, you,” he says, looking more annoyed than before.
I sit down in my seat, ignoring him. I cross my legs under
the desk and lean my back against the hard plastic chair.
“I wanted to extend an invite for dinner in a few days. Our
parents have something to tell you.” He must pick up on his
own stupidity, because he corrects himself: “My mom and
your dad.”
Our parents? Is he fucking demented?
“Don’t ever say some shit like that again, you prick.”
In a move to stand up, Landon pushes his hands against the
top of his desk. I fucking dare him.
“Leave him alone, Hardin!” Tessa yells, and grabs hold of
my arms to keep me from hurling myself at Landon. She really
doesn’t know how to mind her own damn business. I drop my
arms. Fuck this. Why did she have to walk up and join us?
“You need to mind your own business, Theresa.”
Tessa leans into her bestie and whispers something to him.
Bestie is such a stupid word, but I bet these two dweebs use it.
“He’s just an asshole. That pretty much sums it up,”
Landon announces with his most charming grin.
Tessa’s giggling peeves me in the deepest way.
She turns to Landon. “I have some good news!” Ugh. She’s
putting on a show for me, probably thinking I’m too oblivious
to catch on to her juvenile antics.
“Really? What’s that?”
“Noah’s coming to visit today, and he’ll be here all
weekend!”
The slow burn of jealousy is making its way through me,
stopping to fray each edge of me on its way. With every clap
of Tessa’s hands, I can feel my smoldering gaze heating her
skin, and each watt of brightness that grows in her smile
makes my hands twitch on my desk more and more
vehemently.
“Really? That’s great news!” Landon sucks up to Tessa, and
neither of them pays any attention to me when I pretend to
gag.
eighteen
As he got to know the girl, his fears began to grow. He had
never had much competition when it came to affections of
women. His short-lived rendezvous were never challenged by
other men.
That was, until the perfect boy with golden hair came
waltzing in, with a book full of her secrets. He knew the boy
had watched the girl grow up, been alongside her most of the
way and probably knew her better than anyone else. He was
easy to hate, but in the end he realized he wasn’t the
competition after all.
While I walk down the hallway of Tessa’s dorm building, I
try to shake the thoughts out of my head. I can’t help but
picture Tessa naked, underneath her boy toy’s body. His
cardigan tied around his shoulders as he fucks her.
If the thought didn’t make me nauseous, I would find this
image hilarious.
I knock at Tessa’s door once before I turn the handle and
walk in. It’s not locked, which makes it obvious that she and
her boyfriend aren’t planning anything too wild. She and Noah
are sitting on the bed in the dark, and Tessa jumps a little when
she sees me, making a space between them.
“What are you doing here?” Tessa raises her voice the
moment she realizes who it is that has just arrived. “You can’t
just barge in here!”
I give the adorable couple a smile.
“I’m meeting Steph.” I sit down on the edge of Steph’s bed,
knowing that I’m lying. Through my teeth. I turn to Noah,
wanting to gauge his annoyance level. Is he easygoing, or
uptight like Tessa? Tessa’s probably going to piss herself the
moment I say his name. “Hey, Noah, nice to see you again.” I
think about shaking his hand. I’m sure he’s used to it at the
country club he’s a member of.
“She’s with Tristan, probably already at your house.” She
really pushes those words as if she’s trying to tell me to leave.
Not yet, Blondie.
“Oh?” I play with Tessa’s nerves. “Are you two coming to
the party?” That would make it much more fun. I can imagine
the boy fitting in well at the frat house—bro-dudes with
matching blond hair would have him doing a keg stand within
minutes of his arrival. His pure soul would be tainted, and
Theresa would have to find herself another blond Abercrombie
model. Tough life.
“No . . . we aren’t. We’re trying to watch a movie,” Tessa
answers me. Noah moves his hand in the dark, and I cringe as
he rests it on Tessa’s. I can see her discomfort even in the
darkness.
“That’s too bad. I better go . . .” I turn on my boot, and
some of the pressure disappears from my chest. “Oh, and . . .
Noah.” I put a pause between my words and watch Tessa
squirm. “That’s a nice cardigan you’re wearing.”
Tessa looks relieved when she realizes that I’m not going to
cause a scene.
“Thanks. It’s from the Gap,” he answers me, oblivious that
I’m making fun of him.
“I can see that. You two have fun,” I say as I leave the
room. My chest burns as I close the door. He’s a tool.
nineteen
Just as his life was beginning to make a little sense, it was
shaken again. He thought he was in complete control of
himself, of her, of everything. He was resisting the sweet
temptation of the bitter liquor. He didn’t crave it the way he
had until he found himself on the phone with his father, getting
a play-by-play of the man’s new—and better—life.
When he hung up the phone, he had no other option.
He was completely alone with his only friend. The bottle of
scotch was nearly empty; it mirored him in that way.
When I get to the Scott house, I park right in the middle of
the driveway. I hate this fucking beautiful house. It sits high on
a perfectly green lawn. Ken and Karen pay a pretty penny to
have their yard groomed; no doubt they pay a pretty penny to
have themselves groomed as well. Ken’s new soon-to-be wife
loves living here, I’m sure. She probably loves spending his
money on grooming herself, too.
I’m fucking livid.
I’m pissed off and not drunk enough to deal with this kind
of bullshit. What fucking piece-of-shit father tells his only son
he’s getting married to another woman when you’re just now
getting to know his ass? This is exactly why I didn’t want
anything to fucking do with him. I’m pissed that I only had a
quarter of a bottle of liquor in my cabinet. My head is
pounding, my throat is dry, and I’m craving the burn of scotch.
Ken Scott has fine bottles of scotch gifted to him from
colleagues in sweater vests who have just returned from their
vacations in Scotland. My shitty father is getting remarried,
and he says it like this: “Karen and I are to be wed. Soon, very
soon.”
To be wed? What the fuck kind of stilted-ass expression is
that? And during a fucking telephone conversation?
“We are to be wed,” I repeat as I take his porch stairs in two
long strides. The man has so much fucking topiary it makes
me feel like I’m lost in the fucking Wonka Jungle, or Wonka
Factory thing. Hell, whatever it is, it’s hideous.
First and foremost, I need more scotch.
“I’m all out!” I exclaim, my voice leaping out into the
darkness.
I’m in a pickle here. I’m drunk, but not as drunk as I want
to be. I need more liquor. Ken has more liquor. He always has.
I knock on the door, and no one answers. The man’s house
is too damn big. Stupid brick showy model home.
“Hello?” I shout into the abyss of a dark yard, with loud
crickets shouting back at me. The neighbors all have their
porch lights on, and every house has an SUV parked in front,
the bumpers littered with WCU bumper stickers. All of the
overpaid, highbrow scholars live on this street. I pull my gray
beanie down over my hair, hoping it makes me look even more
dangerous to the neighbors than usual.
Landon opens the door before I even realize that I’m
pounding my fist against the wood. My knuckles are barely
healed; the skin never really has a chance to heal before I rip it
open time after time.
“Hardin?” His voice is low, like I’ve woken him up.
“No,” I say, passing him in the foyer. I walk straight to the
kitchen and raise my voice so he can hear me as he follows.
My eyes stop for a beat on their couch; its frilly, floral-vomit-
covered mass bothers me. “It’s someone else who looks
identical to him, only this model thinks you’re an even bigger
prick than the other one does.”
I open a cabinet in the kitchen to begin my search. My
sperm donor—that is to say, Ken—since becoming sober has
thrown out most of his liquor, but I know he kept at least one
rare bottle of scotch. Maybe it’s a reminder, maybe it’s a
temptation, but he cherishes it—fucking treasures it, even. I’ve
heard him talk more about that stupid bottle, and with more
pleasure, than he talks about his own son since I’ve been here.
He always keeps it in a different spot; I don’t know if he hides
it from himself or if he uses it as a constant marker of his
sobriety. Either way, it’s mine now.
“They aren’t here. My mom and Ken went out of town for
the weekend.” Landon explains what I already know.
I stay quiet, not wanting to converse with my soon-to-be
stepbrother. The thought makes me gag. I’m not meant to have
family, no siblings looking out for me or vice versa. I’m meant
to be alone and take care of myself.
I keep searching, now moving into Ken and Karen’s
bedroom. The room is enormous, big enough for three king-
size beds like the four-poster they have in the center of the
room. Their dresser, nightstands, and bed are all a dark
cherrywood, the same as Ken’s desk in his office.
Anal-compulsive asshat.
The room is hideous and it looks like shit, so I hope Ken
and Karen are happy in here with their matching furniture and
pristine life. I pull the string in the closet to turn on the light
and brush my hand across the shelves. After feeling around
some dust and a box, my fingers hit glass. Jackpot.
I carefully bring the bottle down and wipe the thin layer of
dust that’s gathered since Ken’s last public showing.
Immediately I twist the top off, feeling deep satisfaction as the
plastic tears, ruining the perfect seal.
The scotch is hot on my tongue, and it tingles a small cut
on the inside of my cheek. I savor the thick, slow burn of the
smooth liquor. Ken Scott has always loved his scotch, and he’s
a true aficionado of the beverage. The taste is incredible—so
smooth, yet with such a rich flavor. I personally think scotch is
just a tad pretentious and was disappointed to find out that it’s
the only whiskey that comes from Scotland. Showy bastards.
Still, I love the taste—one trait I got from Ken’s short list of
actual contributions to my existence.
Half of the bottle is gone now, my head is spinning, and I
think I should finish it off. Why not? My dad doesn’t deserve
it; he doesn’t even drink anymore. When he chose to stop
holding hands with the devil, he lost the right to possess such
an exquisite bottle.
Besides, he already has enough precious, perfect things.
Like his new son, for example, who right now seems to think
he can stop me from my mission to make his new daddy feel
as shitty as I feel. Ken has a perfect soon-to-be wife who keeps
his pantry and stomach full. She doesn’t have to work an
eight-hour shift, then turn around and run off to another job.
She doesn’t have to line up the bills on their kitchen table
that’s missing a leg, and choose the one she’s not going to
have the money to pay this month. The times I talk to him he
seems to think we were fine back in Hampstead, and I blame a
fraction of that illusion on my mum, whose pride was bigger
than her brain.
His house is clean, and even his fridge is clean—no
fingerprints are visible on the stainless steel. I lick my fingers
and drag them down the metal.
Landon scoffs, cursing from behind me. “Did you drink
that entire bottle?” he asks. His eyes are wide as he stares at
the bottle swinging in my hand.
“No, there’s still half left. Want some?” I ask him.
He backs away into the dining room, his hands raised, and I
follow him. “No.”
Perfect son who doesn’t drink. How sweet.
“I thought you weren’t drinking anymore?” he says. I turn
to him, holding on to a big cabinet filled with expensive, shiny
sets of dishes in order to keep myself from falling down. What
the fuck does he know about my drinking?
My fingers dig into the wood. “Why would you say that?”
He realizes that he wasn’t supposed to say anything like
that in front of the poor damaged child, and his eyes widen. “I
just meant . . .” He attempts to bullshit me.
“Stop.” I hold up the hand with the bottle, and he steps
backward into the living room from the dining room. He’s not
going to stop fucking talking. He’s going to push and push—I
don’t have any control over him, over anything that’s
happening right now. My shitty dad is getting fucking married,
I’m drunk and pissed off, and this motherfucker doesn’t know
when to stop pushing me.
My fingers wrap around the corners of the china cabinet
next to me.
He doesn’t know when to stop. “Your dad said—”
And now it’s my turn to push: before he can finish his
sentence, I push the cabinet over. I use extra force, dropping
the bottle in the process. Landon yells something, but I can’t
hear him over the sound of shattering china.
“Get out! You need to leave!” Landon shouts. I bend down
and grab the bottle from the mess of broken glass, splintered
wood, and slices and fragments of white-and-blue dishes. I cut
the tip of my finger and lick away the blood while making sure
the scotch bottle is properly closed.
“Tessa would be so impressed by this!” I hear his voice as I
pull open the back door.
Tessa? I want to ask him what the fuck Tessa has to do with
any of this, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of
knowing he can use her as leverage over me. For whatever
reason, he thinks tossing her name out there will make me
come down and give a fuck, and I won’t let him think he’s
right. I ignore him even though I don’t want to, and walk out
onto the back deck.
The air is warm but calm; the beginning of fall is here and
the summer nights will soon start to turn chilly, and then chilly
will turn into freezing. The next time I fuck up, I’m moving
somewhere warm.
“Tessa would be so impressed,” I say aloud, mocking
Landon’s voice. He was trying to be a smartass, letting me
know that she wouldn’t approve of my mess-making and
temper tantrum.
“Tessa, Tessa, Tessa!” I shout into the darkness.
Even this yard is perfect. It’s nearly as big as an American
football field and lined with tall trees, keeping the property in
perfect shade during the day and a black sheet of darkness at
night.
MY HEAD IS SPINNING and the silence isn’t helping. I take
another swig.
A few minutes later, the creak of the screen door has me
leaping to my feet. Tessa is standing in the doorway in front of
Landon. She walks toward me, and with every step, the bottle
in my hand feels heavier. Her light eyes are pinned on mine.
Is she real? Her blond hair is so shiny under the patio lights.
She’s glowing. Frowning, but radiant.
Is she really there? I think so . . . unless this bottle is laced
with some hallucinogen, she must be.
“How did you get here?” I ask her. I follow her eyes to
Landon and freeze. That fucker.
“Landon, he . . .” she begins.
“You fucking called her?”
Landon ignores me, walks through the doorway, and closes
the screen door behind him.
Tessa points a finger at me. “You leave him alone, Hardin.
He’s worried about you,” she says, defending her friend.
The perfect brother has the perfect friend.
She’s generally soft-spoken, but not when she’s mad. Her
eyes are so pretty, too perfect for such a soft face. I can’t keep
staring at her; she’s giving me a headache. I have to guess
what she’s thinking, and I’ve had a long enough night already.
I sit down at the patio table and gesture for her to take a seat
across from me.
When she sits down, I take another drink and she stares,
pure judgment in her eyes. I slam the heavy bottle down on the
glass table and she jumps out of her seat. She should leave; she
shouldn’t be here. Landon should never have called her and
told her to come here. Why would she come, anyway? Her
boyfriend is in town this weekend, and I’m sure he’s penciled
in for cuddle time.
The thought makes me cringe. Landon had no fucking right
calling her to come here.
“Aww, aren’t you two something. You’re both so
predictable. Poor Hardin is upset, so you gang up on me and
try to make me feel bad for breaking some shitty china.” I
smile at her, letting her know I’m playing the villain tonight.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” she says,
It’s more a question than a statement. She’s trying to figure
out just who I am. I confuse her, and she hates it.
“I don’t. Until now, I guess. Don’t try to patronize me;
you’re no better than me.” I point a finger at her, using her old
scolding technique.
She doesn’t look fazed by my move. I take another drink.
“I never said I was better than you. I just want to know
what made you start drinking now?”
I’ll never understand what makes this girl think she can ask
people whatever the hell she wants. Boundaries? She has none.
“What does it matter to you? Where’s your boyfriend?” I
burn the question into her. She looks away, unable to keep up
with my stare.
“He’s back in my room. I just want to help you, Hardin.”
Tessa’s hand reaches for mine, and I flinch away before she
can touch me.
What is she doing? This must be some sick joke. Landon
must have told her to come here and be all gentle, tame-the-
lion bullshit. She wouldn’t touch me for no reason.
“Help me.” I laugh. “If you want to help me, then leave.” I
wave the bottle and my hand toward the door.
“Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?” she pushes.
I knew she would. Her hair is down, resting over her shoulders
in waves. She’s wearing casual clothes, looking younger than
ever. Her eyes release mine, and she looks down at her hands
on her lap.
Out of habit, I pull the hat off of my head and run my hand
through my hair. I can smell the scotch seeping from my pores,
and I can hear Tessa’s heavy breaths coming out in long
draws. I match my breathing to hers and then wonder what the
fuck I’m doing.
I would rather get her talking than sit here in tense silence.
“My father decided to tell me just now that he is marrying
Karen—and the wedding’s next month. He should have told
me long ago, and not over the phone. I’m sure perfect little
Landon’s known for a while.”
Tessa’s eyes dart to me, and she looks a little surprised that
I just spoke to her so candidly.
I hadn’t planned to go into that much detail.
I blame the scotch.
“I’m sure he had his reasons not to tell you,” she says,
defending him. Of course she does. Ken Scott is like her:
polished and pretty and always the good guy.
“You don’t know him; he doesn’t give a shit about me. You
know how many times I’ve talked to him in the last year?
Maybe ten! All he cares about is his big house, his new soon-
to-be wife, and his new, perfect son.” I take a drink from the
bottle and wipe my lips with the back of my hand. “You
should see the dump that my mum lives in in England. She
says she likes it there, but I know she doesn’t. It’s smaller than
my dad’s bedroom here! My mum practically forced me to
come here for university, to be closer to him—and we see how
that worked out!”
“How old were you when he left?” Tessa asks. I can’t tell if
she’s being nosy, pitying me, or just wondering.
I hesitate before answering. “Ten. But even before he left,
he was never around. He was at a different bar every night.
Now he’s Mr. Perfect and he has all this shit . . .” I gesture
toward the house. Pots of bright flowers line the ledge of the
deck, adding to the scenery.
“I’m sorry that he left you guys, but—”
“No, I don’t need your pity.” I stop her there. She’s always
making excuse after excuse for everyone around her. It’s
fucking frustrating. She doesn’t know my father, she didn’t
have to put up with his shit until she didn’t anymore, but then
missed it when he was gone.
“It’s not pity. I’m just trying to . . .”
Judge me?
“Trying to what?” I push her to respond.
“Help you. Be here for you.”
It sounds nice when she says it. Too bad she doesn’t know
anything about me. She doesn’t know who she’s trying to help.
She needs to understand that I’m not fixable and she’s wasting
her time here. She needs to leave and never speak to me again.
“You are so pathetic. Don’t you see that I don’t want you
here? I don’t want you to be here for me. Just because I
messed around with you doesn’t mean I want anything to do
with you. Yet here you are, leaving your nice boyfriend—who
can actually stand to be around you—to come here and try to
‘help’ me. That, Theresa, is the definition of pathetic,” I say,
watching her gray eyes turn to stone.
“You don’t mean that.” She doesn’t know me, though she
can read me well.
I deliver the final blow. “I do, though. Go home.” I lift the
bottle in victory and open my mouth. Suddenly the bottle is
snatched from my grip and tossed across the yard.
“What the hell?” I shout at her. Is she mad? Tossing a
valuable bottle of scotch across a lawn like that? I look back
and forth between her figure striding to the patio door and the
bottle, then follow her after grabbing the bottle and leaving it
on the side of the deck, near the table. I have to catch my
balance, but I manage to step in front of her.
“Where are you going?” I look down at her, stopping her
from entering the house. The porch light catches her eyelashes
in a way that makes it look like they’re brushing her
cheekbones. I stare at her as she stares at her feet.
“I’m going to help Landon clean up the mess you made,
and then I’m going home.” Her voice is full of conviction and
leaves no room for arguing. Except that I’m a master of the art
of finding a small space, a crevice, no matter how tiny, to
argue my way into.
“Why would you help him?” He betrayed me by calling her
in the first place, and now she’s leaving me to help him?
“Because he, unlike you”—her voice is low, steady, and
strong—“deserves someone to help him,” she says.
I feel the impact of her words sinking into my chest as she
stares into my eyes, challenging me.
She’s right. He’s the guy everyone wants to be around. He
doesn’t break shit and throw a fit when he gets bad news. He
deserves her time and attention, just like he deserves to walk
into that big house and be welcomed warmly and go into his
own room. He deserves a home-cooked meal; he shouldn’t
have to eat takeout in an empty room inside a house full of
strangers who all secretly hate him.
She’s right about that, and that’s why I let her walk past me
and back into the house without another word.
The way she looked at me as she walked by is burning
through my mind, playing on repeat over and over. I pull out
my phone and scroll through a few pictures I’ve taken of her.
One while walking to the stream . . . her hair was so blond
under the sun and her skin was glowing. She was quiet—
nervous, maybe—but she looks peaceful in the photo. She
really is beautiful. Why would she want to help me? What all
did Landon tell her about my drinking?
I pull my beanie back on, and after a few minutes I can’t
help but go inside. My eyes are burning and my head is
pounding as I open the door.
“Tessa, can I talk to you, please?” I immediately ask.
Landon is crouched over, dropping broken pieces of china into
a plastic bin. Tessa nods, and I stare at her face. Then my eyes
move farther down her body, stopping at her bloody finger,
which she’s holding under the sink faucet.
I cross the kitchen in only a few steps. “Are you okay?
What happened?”
“It’s nothing, just a little glass,” she says. The cut looks
small, but I can’t get a good look at it. I reach for her hand and
pull it from the water. The cut is about half an inch long and a
quarter inch deep. She’ll be okay; she just needs a bandage.
Her hand feels so light in mine, so warm, and I feel my
breathing slow as I hold her. I drop her hand and she lets out a
deep breath.
“Where are the Band-Aids?” I ask Landon.
“Bathroom.” He’s annoyed with me. I can tell by his tone. I
find the small box of bandages easily in the cabinet. I grab the
antibacterial cream from the bottom shelf and return to the
kitchen.
I take Tessa’s hand in mine for the second time and squeeze
the cream onto the tip of her finger. She’s watching me
carefully . . . unsure what to think, maybe? Band-Aids remind
me of my mum and that fucked-up night a long time ago, and I
blink away the memory as I wrap the bandage around Tessa’s
finger.
“Can I talk to you, please?” I ask Tessa for the second time.
She nods, and I wrap my fingers around her wrist, leading her
to the back patio again. We have more privacy there; Landon
won’t be listening in.
When we reach the table, I let go of Tessa’s wrist and pull
the chair out for her. It’s the least I can do, I suppose. My hand
feels cold, and the blood is no longer pumping behind my ears.
I feel calm and cool.
I grab another chair and drag it across the concrete side of
the patio. When I sit down across from her, my knees almost
touch hers.
“What could you possibly want to talk about, Hardin?”
Tessa asks, sounding completely uninterested.
I pull the hat from my head and toss it onto the table
between us. My fingers find my hair. I feel like a complete
bastard for being such an asshole a few minutes ago. I want
her to know that I’m not her charity case, her broken little doll,
but now that I’m coming down from my adrenaline high, I’m
starting to see what a complete dick I am.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. The words settle in the static
between us, and she stays silent. “Did you hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you!” she barks at me. Her chin is lifted in
the most defiant way. She’s pissed.
She’s pissed? I’m fucking pissed. She came here, meddled
in my family drama, and then doesn’t accept my apology?
I reach down for the bottle and open the top. She glares at
me as the liquor slides down my throat. “You’re so damned
difficult to deal with.”
“I’m difficult? You have to be kidding me! What do you
expect me to do, Hardin? You’re cruel to me—so cruel.” Her
lips tremble and her eyes begin to water. She tries to square
her shoulders, but they slump; she’s more than upset over this.
I whisper my response. “I don’t mean to be.”
“Yes, you do, and you know it. You do it purposefully. I’ve
never been treated this poorly by anyone in my entire life.”
That can’t be true. I’m not even that mean to her; she hasn’t
dealt with shit in her life if this is the worst she’s been treated.
“Then why do you keep coming around? Why not just give
up?” I ask her. If I’m that bad, why doesn’t she just quit trying
to be with me?
I ignore the part of my brain that’s questioning how I would
feel if she stopped trying.
“If I . . . I don’t know. But I can assure you that after
tonight, I’m not going to try anymore. I’m going to drop
Literature and just take it next semester,” she tells me. Her
arms are crossed in her lap, and the wind is blowing her hair
behind her shoulders. I wonder if she’s cold.
I don’t want her to drop the class; it’s the only regularly
scheduled time I have with her. “Don’t, please don’t do that.”
“Why would you care? You don’t want to be forced to be
around someone as pathetic as me, right?” I hear pain behind
her words, but I don’t know her well enough to judge if it’s
authentic. I wish I did. I wonder how many people actually
know her, the real her. I’m talking about the one whose brows
crinkle before she smiles, the one who maybe doesn’t have her
shit figured out the way her mum thinks she does.
“I didn’t mean that . . . I’m the pathetic one.” I sigh and
lean back in my chair.
Her eyes pierce mine. “Well, I won’t argue with that,” she
says, her lips pressed into a hard line. She reaches for the
bottle, but I’m faster than her this time.
“So you’re the only one who can get drunk?” She looks at
me, her eyes focusing on the ring in my brow.
“I thought you were going to toss it again.” I hand it to her.
I don’t like her drinking, but she’s ready for a fight over it and
I’m not. I just want her to stay here. I like how quiet it is when
she’s around.
She gags the moment she tastes the scotch. “How often do
you drink? You implied before that it was never.” She’s
grilling me.
“Before tonight it’s been about six months.” Six months
down the drain. Way to fucking go, Hardin.
“Well, you shouldn’t drink at all. It makes you an even
worse person than usual,” she says in a joking way, but I know
she’s serious.
“You think I’m a bad person?” I don’t look up from the
ground while I wait for her answer. She’s going to say yes, just
like everyone else would.
“Yes.”
I’m not surprised by her answer, but I couldn’t help but
hope for her to say no.
“I’m not. Well, maybe I am. I want you to . . .” I begin. I’m
not that bad of a person, am I? I could be better, for her, if she
asked me to. I look at her, taking in the way her lips are
trembling, waiting for me to finish my jumbled thought. I want
to be good, I want her to think I’m good.
“You want me to what?” she asks impatiently. She pushes
the bottle into my hands, and I sit it down on the table without
taking a drink.
How do I answer that without sounding pathetic? I can stop
drinking, I can be nicer to people, or just her.
“Nothing.” I can’t find the right words for her.
“I should go.” She stands to her feet and rushes away from
me. She’s moving so fast, and I don’t want her to leave. I’ll try
harder.
“Don’t go.” I follow her. When she stops, her face is so
close to mine that I can taste the faint trace of scotch on her
breath.
“Why not? Do you have more insults to throw in my face?”
she shouts, her words hitting me harder than usual. She turns
away from me again, and I reach for her. I wrap my hand
around her arm and pull her back.
“Don’t turn your back on me!” I yell at her. She doesn’t get
to come here and stir shit up and walk away. I’m fucking sick
of people doing that shit to me.
“I should have turned my back on you a long time ago!”
Tessa’s hands push against my chest. “I don’t know why I’m
even here! I came all the way here the second Landon called
me!” She’s screaming at me now. Her face is red and her lips
are moving so fast. Her tongue darts out to wet them so she
can finish her angry rant. “I left my boyfriend—who, like you
said, is the only one who can stand to be around me—to come
here for you!”
Her words sink into me, one by one. She did leave her
boyfriend to come here. She has no other reason to be here
aside from me. Maybe I’m not as bad as I thought, and maybe
she sees that in me.
“You know what? You’re right, Hardin, I am pathetic. I’m
pathetic for coming here, I’m pathetic for even trying—”
I close the space between us without another thought and
press my mouth to hers. She pushes at my chest, fighting me,
but I can feel her body relaxing in my arms.
“Kiss me, Tessa,” I beg her. I need her.
“Please, just kiss me. I need you.” I try once more, for the
last time, to get her to kiss me. My tongue touches her closed
lips, and they part. She gives in to me all at once, willingly and
wholly. She leans into me, sighing against my breath, and I
bring my hands to both of her cheeks, cupping her face,
devouring the taste of her.
My tongue traces her bottom lip, and she shivers. I wrap
my arms around her, anchoring myself to her steadiness. I hear
a noise from the house, and Tessa pulls away. I don’t kiss her
again, but I keep my arms wrapped around her.
“Hardin, I really have to go. We can’t keep doing this; it’s
not good for either of us,” she says.
She’s lying to herself. We can figure this out.
“Yes, we can keep going,” I assure her. I don’t know where
this sudden bloom of hope has come from, but it feels nice
here, settled in my chest.
“No, we can’t. You hate me, and I don’t want to be your
punching bag anymore. You confuse me. One minute you’re
telling me how much you can’t stand me or humiliating me
after my most intimate experience . . .”
I did that. I fucked up—I need to explain what happened
and that sometimes I fuck things up on purpose. I’ve always
been like this. My gran once tried to have a birthday party for
me when I was twelve. She sent out invitations and ordered a
special cake. On the day of the party, I told everyone it was
canceled and sulked in my room the entire day. I didn’t touch
that cake. I just fuck things up sometimes . . . but I can find a
way to stop doing that. If it means I get to kiss Tessa, to feel
her losing herself in me again, I’ll do anything.
I try to interrupt her, but she stops me by pressing her index
finger to my lips. If she didn’t have a Band-Aid on it, I would
be kissing her cut. “Then the next minute you’re kissing me
and telling me you need me. I don’t like who I am when I’m
with you, and I hate the way I feel after you say terrible things
to me.”
“Who are you when you’re with me?” I ask her. I like who
she is. She’s a better person than most.
“Someone I don’t want to be, someone who cheats on her
boyfriend and cries constantly.” Her voice cracks. She’s
ashamed of the person she becomes when she’s around me.
That makes me feel like shit. I want her to be happy about
spending time with me. I want her to crave me the same
irresistible way that I do her.
“You know who I think you are when you’re with me?” I
ask her. My thumb traces the line of her jaw, and her eyes
flutter closed under my touch.
“Who?” she whispers, her lips barely moving. The air
between us is calm now as she awaits my answer.
I answer truthfully. “Yourself. I think this is the real you
and that you’re just too busy caring what everyone else thinks
about you to realize it.
“And I know what I did to you after I fingered you . . .” She
cringes at my blunt word choice. “Sorry . . . after our
experience. I know it was wrong. I felt terrible after you got
out of my car.”
“I doubt that.” She rolls her eyes, dismissing me.
“It’s true, I swear it. I know you think I’m a bad person . . .
but you make me—” I can’t finish. She’s digging into me,
deeper and deeper, and it’s terrifying. “Never mind.”
“Finish that sentence, Hardin, or I’m leaving right now.” I
can tell she means it. She waits, her hand on her hip and her
eyes stone cold for me.
“You . . . you make me want to be good, for you . . . I want
to be good for you, Tess,” I breathe, and she gasps.
twenty
When she started pressuring him for labels and proofs of
commitment, he panicked. He felt like a wild animal being
cornered and trapped. His cage was honesty, and she
threatened to lock him away without a key. He couldn’t lose
her, but with each day it grew harder to keep her. She turned
the tables on him, questioning things he thought she would
never catch on to. When she wanted more, she demanded it,
taking nothing but yes for an answer, but when he wanted
more, she pushed against it¸ excuse after excuse.
This could never work, Hardin—we’re so different. First off,
you don’t date, remember?” she fires at me. She steps away
from me, and I hope she doesn’t try to leave my father’s
house. It feels like all we talk about anymore is the future.
Marriage, living together, breaking up, not breaking up. Tessa
feels pressure to plan her whole life, but I don’t. At this point I
think it’s common knowledge that I don’t handle this type of
pressure well. Regardless, she keeps pushing for me to be
better and better for her.
“We aren’t that different—we like the same things; we both
love books, for example,” I tell her.
I always have to defend myself to her. “You don’t date,”
she mocks me.
“I know, but we could . . . be friends?”
Friends? Really, Hardin?
Frustration glows in her eyes. “I thought you said we
couldn’t be friends? And I won’t be friends with you—I know
what you mean by that. You want all the benefits of being a
boyfriend without actually having to commit.”
I let go of her body and lose my footing. I quickly balance
myself. “Why is that so bad? Why do you need the label?” I’m
thankful for the space between us and the fresh, scotch-free
air.
“Because, Hardin, even though I haven’t really had a lot of
restraint lately, I do have self-respect. I will not be your
plaything, especially when it involves being treated like dirt.”
Exasperated, she throws her hands into the air. “And besides,
I’m already taken, Hardin.”
She’s using that bloke as an excuse? Oh, come on! Who is
she trying to kid here?
“And yet look where you are right now,” I say dryly.
She’s dangling her boyfriend over my head, taunting me
with him and complaining when I do the same with Molly. She
sees no double standard here, and the liquor is making it seem
even worse tonight. I’m smart enough to know this, but dumb
enough to stop myself from being a dick. I’m also liquored up
enough to not give a fuck about much of anything. I shattered
my father’s dining room into tiny pieces.
Her mouth twists into a menacing frown, teeth bared and
all. “I love him and he loves me.”
Her words slice at my chest. The last ones hit the bone. I
move away from her and knock into the chair. Fuck my lack of
balance.
“Don’t say that to me.” I raise a hand as if it could guard
me from her words.
She doesn’t back down; she’s full-fledged pissed the fuck
off and fully intending to go straight for the throat here.
“You’re only saying this because you’re drunk; tomorrow
you’ll go back to hating me.”
Hating her? Hating her? As if I could possibly hate her?
I back away in frustration and try to focus on how green the
trees are here because of all the rain. “I don’t hate you,” I
finally say. “If you can look me in the eyes and tell me that
you want me to leave you alone and never speak to you again,
I will listen.” I don’t want to hear her say these words—they
would kill me—but if she felt that way, if she wanted me to
back off, I’d back off. “I swear, from this point on I will never
come near you again. Just say the words.”
I try to imagine my life if she left. She would take with her
all the color I’ve worked on painting into my life.
Before she can answer, I continue: “Tell me, Tessa, tell me
that you never want to see me again.” I can’t imagine it. I step
even closer and reach out to run my fingers over her bare
arms. Gooseflesh rises on her skin, and her lips part.
I lean closer and whisper, “Tell me you never want to feel
my touch again.” I press my fingers to her neck and gently
drag the tips down the length of it, then along her collarbone.
She’s practically heaving now, unable to speak. I lean even
closer, my face barely an inch away from hers. I can feel the
electricity under her skin; the faint hum distracts us both.
“That you never want me to kiss you again . . .” I lower my
voice, and she trembles.
“Tell me, Theresa.” I push for the words that I don’t want to
come from her lips.
I barely hear her when she says my name, but I feel her
breath puff against my lips.
“You can’t resist me, Tessa, just as I can’t resist you.” She
looks hesitant but not appalled by this statement. “Stay with
me tonight?” I ask her against her lips.
Tessa’s eyes dart from mine to the house, and she pulls
away. I turn to see what caused her to freak out. I don’t see
anything. She says she has to go.
No, she can’t go. I’m not ready to be in this house alone
yet. I can’t believe I’m going to stay here.
“Fuck,” I mumble, running my fingers over my hair.
“Please, please stay. Just stay with me tonight, and if you
decide in the morning to tell me you don’t want to see me
anymore . . .” I don’t want this to be an option, but sadly it is.
“Just please stay. I am begging you, and I don’t beg, Theresa.”
I’ve never begged in my life. Is it the liquor or is it her that
makes me so crazy? I can’t tell.
Tessa nods, her eyes shining under the light. “And what
will I tell Noah?” His name throws a wrench into my side,
reminding me that she’s only temporarily mine. I need more
time with her. “He’s waiting for me, and I have his car,” she
explains.
She left him back at her room? For me?
I don’t know what to make of this. Did they break up? Does
he know that she’s here with me? I wonder if the boy even
knows my name. It drives me fucking insane that I don’t know
how involved she is with me emotionally. Steph won’t tell me
shit, and Tessa gives even less away.
Does she really care so much about what her boyfriend
thinks? I stare at the back of the house. The green vines are
taking over the brick wall. The lights are so bright. I suspect
that the reality of what she’s been doing must be hitting her.
“Just tell him that you have to stay because . . . I don’t know.
Don’t tell him anything. What’s the worst thing he can do?”
I’m curious as to why Noah seems to have so much control
over her. She sighs; her bottom lip puffs out and she looks
genuinely worried. What could be so bad . . . he would tell her
mummy on her? She’s eighteen now—doesn’t she know that?
“He’s probably asleep, anyway,” I say. It’s true; he’s still on
high school curfew.
Tessa shakes her head. I lean back against the ledge of the
deck. “No, he has no way to get back to his hotel.”
Hotel? This kid is staying at a fucking hotel? Is he even old
enough to rent a room on his own? “Hotel? Wait—he doesn’t
stay with you?” I’m baffled.
“No, he has a hotel room close by.” Tessa’s eyes drop to the
wooden deck floor and she shuffles her feet. She’s
uncomfortable.
“And you stay there with him?”
“No, he stays there,” she quietly responds, looking
embarrassed. She keeps her eyes on the ground and continues,
“And I stay in my room.”
No fucking way. Does he even like her? Does he like
women at all? I mean, come on, look at her! “Is he straight?” I
can’t help but ask. There’s no way he is. Unless he’s cheating
on her, which would be fucked up—but would help my case
tremendously.
Not that she’s not doing the same thing to him.
Tessa’s mouth pops open in horror. “Of course he is!”
It’s insane to me that she doesn’t see anything weird about
her boyfriend not wanting to stay with her. “Sorry, but
something is not right there. If you were mine, I wouldn’t be
able to stay away from you. I would fuck you every chance I
had.” It’s true. I would wake her up every morning with my
face buried between her thighs. I would put her to bed every
night by blowing her mind and making her scream my name.
A blanket of redness flushes down Tessa’s face, and she
looks away from my eyes. I love the way my words affect her.
The darkness is giving me a headache. The trees are moving
too much, their trunks twisting in unnatural ways. Also, I want
to be inside, alone with her. Especially after the night I’ve had.
I turn to Tessa and can’t keep my eyes off her parted lips.
“Let’s go inside. The trees are swaying back and forth. I think
that’s my cue that I’ve had way too much to drink.”
Tessa looks at the house and back to me. “You’re staying
here?”
I nod and reach for her hand. She’s staying here, too. I still
can’t believe I’m staying in Ken’s house after the shit that man
pulled. “Yeah, and so are you. Let’s go.” I take her hand before
she can fight me again.
We walk into the house, and she tries to move her hand
from mine by walking faster than me. I take a longer step as
we pass through the kitchen.
Some of the mess is still there on the floor. Many of the
shattered pieces of porcelain are now overflowing the bin, and
most of the glass has been swept off the floor. Good, Landon
can clean up this mess. He’s getting my fucking dad, after all.
Truth is, he already has him. Someone or something other than
me has always had Ken Scott. The scotch, the bars, Karen,
Landon, this big house. He spreads himself so thin, yet had no
room for me in his life until the last year, and he thinks I’m
just going to be okay with that shit? No fucking way.
I tighten my hold on Tessa’s hand as we walk through the
house and up the stairs. If I remember correctly, the room
we’re going to is the last one in the hallway upstairs. There are
so many fucking doors up here. We wouldn’t want to walk into
Landon’s room and find him wanking.
We finally reach the door at the end. Tessa has been quiet
during the walk, and I’m okay with that. I don’t want to push
her too much, and I’m still trying to stop thinking about my
sperm donor being a fuckup.
The room behind the door is dark. I struggle for the light
switch.
“Hardin?” Tessa whispers in the darkness.
The curtain is open slightly, allowing a little bit of
moonlight to come through. I let go of Tessa’s hand and step
farther inside. This damn light switch is impossible to find. I
continue to run my hand over the smooth wall but find
nothing.
What the fuck?
I can see the outline of a table, possibly a lamp, on the other
side of the room, so I blindly move toward it. The toe of my
boot catches on something solid, and I nearly fall to the
ground. “Fuck!” I curse at the object. This room probably
doesn’t even have a goddamn light; Ken and Karen likely just
wanted to fuck with me.
When I get to the table, my fingers feel for a lampshade.
Bingo! “I’m right here,” I tell Tessa as I pull on the chain. The
bulb clicks on, and the startlingly strong light from such a
small lamp blinds me. I blink a few times and look around the
room. My room.
My room that I’ve never used. Ever.
The bedroom reminds me of some gaudy-ass hotel. The
walls are painted a light gray, with crisp white trim along the
ceiling and floorboard. The carpet even has those lines
vacuumed into it. The bed against the back wall is disgustingly
big, with a mountain of decorative pillows piled at the
expansive cherrywood headboard. The only reason a bed this
big would ever be necessary is if Tessa was lying naked in the
center of the dark gray duvet. Unfortunately for me, she’s not.
She’s standing next to a desk that matches the bed and holds a
brand-new Mac desktop. Showy motherfuckers.
I rub my hand over the back of my neck. “This is my . . .
room.” I don’t know what else to say about it.
Tessa pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and asks, “You
have a room here?”
It doesn’t feel like my room, not in the least bit, but
technically it is. Ken has told me multiple times about the
room here that’s only for me. Like I’m supposed to be
impressed by the four-poster bed or the giant computer
monitor. “Yeah . . . I haven’t ever actually slept in it . . . until
tonight,” I uncomfortably explain. I hope she doesn’t ask any
more questions, but I know she will.
There’s a bulky storage bin at the end of the bed that I’m
assuming has a single purpose: to hold the overabundance of
pillows. I make it more useful by sitting down on it and taking
my boots off. Tessa watches me, probably compiling a list of
questions to ask, like the nosy little thing she is. I pull my
socks off and tuck them into my boots. I have a few small cuts
on my ankle. Some of the shards apparently got into my shoe.
Fucking great.
Tessa must have finished her list. She takes a step closer
and opens her mouth. “Oh. Why is that?”
I take a breath and decide to answer her instead of giving
her shit about it. “Because I don’t want to. I hate it here,” I
reply with honesty. I do hate it here. I hate that my bed at my
mum’s house in England had a stained mattress and the same
sheet and duvet since I was a kid.
While Tessa processes my truthful answer and formulates
her next question, I unbutton my pants and pull them down.
Tessa’s eyes go from distant to wide and alert within two
seconds of me standing in my boxers in front of her.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Getting undressed?” I say, raising my pierced brow to her.
I know she likes to ask questions, but why do so many of them
have to be so unnecessary?
“I mean, why?” She stares at the crotch of my boxers. If
she’s trying to be subtle and pretend she isn’t thinking about
my cock right now, she’s failing miserably.
My eyes meet hers. “Well, I’m not sleeping in skinny jeans
and boots.” My hair falls down my forehead and I push it
back.
“Oh,” Tessa quietly says.
I wait for her to say something further, but she doesn’t. I
watch her eyes as I pull my shirt over my head. Her stare
moves from my neck down to my stomach, taking in every
line of black ink. She focuses the longest on the tree tattooed
there. I wonder if she likes it or if this part of me is
unattractive to her. Her focus on me makes me uneasy. I don’t
know what to do while she’s inspecting me for damage. Each
inch of my skin that her eyes touch rises with gooseflesh.
Instead of the burning I always read about, I feel the slow
blowing of an icy breath.
Tessa is still staring, still focused only on my body. I
surprise her by tossing my shirt at her. She’s too entranced by
me to catch it quick enough. I wonder what it would take to
get her naked so I can inspect her body, with my eyes steady
on her, taking in every inch, every blemish that she’s insecure
about but I won’t see.
I wish I knew what she was thinking. I wish I knew her
better. I find myself wishing that I could have known her in a
different way. She could have been my neighbor who stops by
and borrows things, and I could ask her as many questions as I
want. I would ask her why she asks so many questions, why
she always scrunches her eyebrows up when she’s confused,
or mad. I would ask her what she wants to do with her life. I
would ask her how she’d feel if she didn’t get to see me again.
I would ask her if she could possibly find forgiveness and
grant it to me.
But this is reality, and in reality, I’m still a stranger to her.
She barely knows anything about me, and if she knew half of
the fucked-up shit I’ve done, she wouldn’t be so intrigued. My
tattoos, or her reaction to them, would fade, and her response
to my attitude would turn from sarcastic to venomous. I have
to be careful with this, because if my mystery disappears, she
will, too.
Fuck, all of this makes my head spin. My buzz is fading,
and my head is starting to fuck me up. I need to lighten this
shit up really quickly. “You can sleep in that.” I smile at her. “I
assume you won’t want to sleep in just your underwear. But of
course, I’m perfectly fine with it if you do.”
“I’m fine sleeping in this,” she says in the most
unconvincing tone I’ve ever heard. She doesn’t want to sleep
in her bulky skirt and baggy shirt. I quite like her shirt; the
light blue color goes well with her eyes. I’ve never had a
thought like that before . . . It goes well with her eyes? What
does that even mean?
She’s messing me up more than the scotch tonight.
“Fine. Suit yourself; if you want to be uncomfortable, go
ahead.” I step closer to the bed and grab the first pillow I touch
and throw it onto the floor.
Tessa looks offended by this. Or maybe she’s offended that
I’m half naked. I don’t know. She walks to the foot of the bed
and opens the ugly chest. “Oh, don’t throw those on the floor.
They go in here,” she tells me, as if I didn’t know that. Does
she think I’ve never seen these types of pillows before? Does
she think because I had a single mum that I don’t know how to
put overpriced bundles of cotton into a box?
No, Hardin, she’s only trying to help . . . I try to talk myself
down. My mind always goes straight for the worst possible
interpretation, and I fucking hate it. My insecurities are eating
me alive. I grab another, even frillier pillow and throw it onto
the carpet. She groans, complaining while she bends down to
pick it up.
While Tessa plays Molly Maid, I pull back the duvet and
climb into the bed. It’s never been slept in before, I can tell. It
feels like lying on clouds. It’s even better than a hotel. I watch
Tessa watch me as I cross my arms behind my head. She’s
always watching me. I’m always watching her.
I cross my ankles as she shoves the last pillow into the
chest and closes the top. Neat freak, she is.
Is she going to stand there all night? I would rather that she
peel off her baggy clothes and climb into bed with me.
“You’re not going to whine about sleeping in the bed with me,
are you?”
“No, the bed is big enough for both of us.” Her smile shows
no nerves, but her shaking hands picking at her nails do. She’s
being playful now. I love it.
“Now, that’s the Tessa I love,” I joke. Her eyes widen
slightly, and I push the reason why away from my mind. Not
today—not going anywhere near that thought today.
Awkwardly, Tessa climbs onto the bed after slipping off her
shoes. She stays fully dressed, and she remains at the edge of
the king-size bed, as far away from me as possible. She lies
down, and I consider scooting closer to her, but I’m afraid
she’ll get spooked and fall off the bed. As I’m picturing her
falling to the floor, I laugh, and she turns around to face me.
“What’s so funny?” She’s doing that thing with her
eyebrows again. She’s so fucking cute.
“Nothing,” I lie. I don’t think telling her that I was
picturing her take a tumble will help my case tonight. Still, I
can’t help but laugh as she pouts.
“Tell me!” She looks up for a second and then deliberately
pops out her bottom lip. Despite her fake pouting, or maybe
because of it, her lips are so fuckable. I can’t wait to feel them
take a slow drag down the shaft of my cock. Thinking about
her head bobbing up and down on me has me pulling my lip
ring between my teeth. The metal is cold on my warm tongue.
I roll onto my side and face her while I ask, “You’ve never
slept in a bed with a guy before, have you?” For that matter, I
haven’t slept in a bed with a girl before either. It wasn’t my
thing. I don’t know if it is now, but so far so good.
I’m relieved when she answers, “No.” I smile to show her
how I feel about being the first guy she’s slept in a bed with. I
love that she has so much left of her to be claimed. In some
ways, I have so much left of me to give her, too.
Tessa is facing me, lying only a few feet away from me.
She’s still dressed in her heavy clothing, and it’s driving me
insane. She lifts her hand between us and touches the dimple
on my right cheek. It’s such a simple, yet tender thing to do.
No one, not even my mum, has touched me on the face in at
least ten years. Even during sex, sometimes I kiss girls, but I
don’t let their fingers linger on my body.
I make eye contact with her and register her panic. She
pulls away, but I grab her hand and put it back to my cheek. It
feels good, having her touch me. Her touch is so gentle. I want
her to touch me everywhere. “I don’t know why no one has
fucked you yet; all that planning you do must help you put up
a really good resistance,” I tease her. There has to be a reason
she’s so inexperienced. It’s just not realistic that she would
have absolutely no experience without a good reason for it.
“I’ve never really had to resist anyone,” she says. I don’t
believe her words, but I believe her eyes. Still, it’s just so hard
to have faith.
“That’s either a lie or you went to an all-blind high school.”
I look at her pretty mouth. “Your lips alone are enough to
make me hard.” It’s true. She could easily reach down and feel
the proof of my words. I almost tell her that, but I don’t want
to ruin the moment.
Tessa satisfies me by gasping at my filthy words. I laugh
and think of all the ways I can drive her fucking wild. She’s
like driving a brand-new car, the excitement you feel when
hearing the engine’s low purr for the first time. I want to make
her purr—I would make her scream if Landon wasn’t here. I
want to take this slow tonight, but I want to show her more
than what I did at the stream. That was only one of my many
tricks.
I lick my lips and take Tessa’s hand in mine, bringing both
of our hands to my mouth. She inhales a sharp breath, and I
pull her hand along my wet lips. Her hands are shaking when I
single out her index finger and gently bite down on the pad.
She moans on instinct, and my cock twitches in my boxers.
Tessa’s hands are warm as I guide them down my neck. It feels
so good to be touched, the level of high that I feel clouding my
senses. The liquor has mostly worn off, and now I’m
completely trashed off of a stubborn, sexy blonde. Tessa pulls
her hand away, and I drop my own hand onto my lap. Her
fingertips trace the ivy inked along the bottom of my neck. I
can’t concentrate on anything except for the cool, calm trail
she’s leaving behind on my skin.
After a few seconds of silence, I speak up. I’m curious and
horny, and I’m going to have fun with her. I bring my hand
back to hers. “You like the way I talk to you, don’t you?”
I stare at her until her chest begins to rise faster and faster.
She breaks eye contact with me, and I continue: “I can see the
blush in your cheeks, and I can hear the way your breathing
has changed. Answer me, Tessa—put those full lips of yours
to use.” I wish she would do this in more ways than one. She
stays silent. Man, I thought I was stubborn. I move closer to
her and take her wrist between my fingers. Tessa looks so
flustered, pink taking over skin. She’s addicting.
Just when I think she’s going to speak up about her
attraction to me, she says, “Can you turn the fan on?” Really,
Theresa? She thinks I’m a sucker already? That I’m just going
to climb out of this comfortable bed where she’s lying so close
to me. I look at her face, her gray eyes. “Please?” she
whispers, still looking at me. Before I realize what I’m doing,
I’m climbing out of the bed. Damn, she’s good.
She looks pretty smug when I glance back to the bed. She
also looks ridiculously uncomfortable in those heavy clothes.
Her skirt is made up of as much material as the duvet. “If
you’re hot, why don’t you change out of those heavy clothes;
that skirt looks itchy, anyway.”
Tessa smiles at me, rolling her eyes.
I’m serious, though . . . she dresses terribly. “You should
dress for your body, Tessa. These clothes you wear hide all of
your curves.” I look at what I can see of her chest, which is
barely anything. “If I hadn’t seen you in your bra and panties,
I’d never have known how sexy and curvy your body actually
is. That skirt literally looks like a potato sack.”
She laughs at me. That went better than expected. “What do
you suggest I wear? Fishnets and tube tops?” She raises her
brow and waits for an answer.
Tessa in a tube top and short denim shorts flashes in my
mind. “No, well, I might love to see that, but no. You can still
cover yourself, but wear clothes your size. That shirt hides
your chest, too, and your tits are nothing you should be
hiding.”
“Will you stop using those words!” She shakes her head,
and I laugh as I climb back into bed with her. I don’t know
how close to lie, so I slowly inch nearer until I’m practically
touching her. She sits up and gets out of the bed. My chest
burns.
“Where are you going?” I ask, hoping I didn’t piss her off
enough to leave.
She walks across the room in quick steps. “To change.” She
bends down and picks up my dirty T-shirt from the floor. I
smile, happy that she likes to wear it as much as I like for her
to.
“Now, turn around and don’t peek,” she says as if I’m a
child. She knows damn well I’m going to look.
“No.” I shrug and she glares at me.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” she asks, frustrated.
I’m honest when I tell her, “I won’t turn around. I want to
see you.”
She agrees but then betrays me by flicking off the light.
What a tease! I groan, loving the flirty game she’s playing. I
whine loudly, to let her know that I’m not going to play fair if
she isn’t. I hear heavy fabric fall to the floor—the skirt. I pull
the chain for the light, and Tessa jumps at the brightness. She
gasps my name like it’s a curse word: “Hardin!”
I continue to stare at her, from her legs to her eyes and back
down again. She takes a deep breath and raises her arms to put
my shirt on. Tessa’s bra is plain white cotton with very little
padding. Not that she needs any. Her panties match; the cut
covers nearly her entire ass. Her ass is perfect. Round and
perky . . . I would love to take her there, too.
“Come here,” I whisper. I can’t wait another second to
touch her body. Tessa’s walking toward the bed, turning the
room into a goddamn burlesque show, and I fucking love it. I
need a better view. I move up to the headboard and rest my
back flat against it. Tessa flushes under the heat of my stare,
and it makes my pleasure all the greater.
When she reaches me, she puts her small hand into mine
and I pull her to me. She straddles my body, her knees resting
at my sides. I love having her like this. My imagination is
going fucking wild. Tessa holds herself up, keeping her body
from touching mine. I don’t think so. I gently grip her hips and
guide her down onto my body. She bites down on her lip, and
her eyes meet mine. I look away first because I can feel the
boner coming from a mile away. Tessa’s legs are so soft and
the way my shirt is lifted up to her hips is so sexy.
I smile at her, admiring how good she feels and looks.
“Much better.” I wait for her to smile back, but she doesn’t.
“What’s wrong?” I gently stroke at her cheek, making her
smile. Her eyes close, and I wonder if this is breaking the rules
of the Bet somehow. I think I’m beyond that at this point.
“Nothing . . . I just don’t know what to do,” Tessa says.
When she won’t meet my eyes, I know she feels embarrassed.
I don’t want there to be a lot of pressure on her. Any way
that she touches me is going to be enjoyable. I don’t know
how to explain any of this without actually showing her. “Do
whatever you want to do, Tess. Don’t overthink it.”
Tessa raises her hand and seems to be about to touch my
bare chest. When she doesn’t touch me, I look up at her. She
looks into my eyes for permission to touch me. No one has
done that before, either. I nod, nervous but excited, and watch
her. Her index finger slowly drags down my stomach to the
waist of my boxers. I try to stay still even though I want to
grab her wrist, flip her over, and fuck her into the mattress. I
close my eyes and feel her finger trace over my tattoos. I like
when she does this.
When she pulls her hand away, I open my eyes. I need
more. I’m an addict.
“Can I . . . um . . . touch you?” Tessa is hesitant as she
stares at the bulge in my boxers.
Fuck yes! I want to shout at her. Instead, I stay as calm as
possible. Nodding, I beg, “Please.”
Tessa looks nervous as she lowers her hand to my crotch.
She hovers over my growing length before barely touching it.
She lowers her hand a little more and continues to feel it out.
Her fingers are gentle as she drags them up and down my
cock, making me grow for her.
“Do you want me to show you what to do?” I suggest. I
want her to be comfortable.
When Tessa nods her head, I gently place my hand over
hers. My hands are so much larger than hers that her fingertips
barely pass my knuckles. I bring both of our hands down my
body and stop over my boxers. I help her grip my cock in her
hand. She gently squeezes, and I moan and let go of her hand.
She’s got this. The look on her face when she realizes she has
complete control is so filthy but trying to play innocent. Her
pupils are blown out, her lips are parted, and her cheeks are
rosy.
“Fuck, Tessa, don’t do that,” I mutter. I’m going to explode
if she gets that expression on her face again.
Tessa, taking me at my word, stills her hand. Fuck, I forgot
how literal she can be.
“No, no, not that. Keep doing that—I mean don’t look at
me that way,” I clarify.
Tessa bats her lashes in the most naive way. “What way?”
“That innocent way—that look that makes me want to do so
many dirty things to you.” So, so many things, Theresa.
She’s nervous as she moves her hand on me. Her grip isn’t
as tight as it could be, but I don’t want to point that out. She’ll
get the hang of it on her own. I’ll sure as hell help her figure it
out. She’s chewing on her lip as her slow strokes make me
moan her name under my breath. If I could have one thing
forever, this would be it.
“Fuck, Tess, your hand feels so good wrapped around me,”
I moan. My words encourage her, but maybe a little too much.
She squeezes me, and a soft rush of pain shoots through me.
“Not that hard, baby.” I gently guide her, careful not to
embarrass her.
She kisses me and continues in slow strokes. “Sorry,” she
whispers against my neck as she touches her lips to my skin.
She moves her tongue up my neck to the base of my ear.
Fuckkkk, that feels so fucking good. I need to touch her; I’m
not going to last long.
My hands find her chest, and her bra feels like a wall
between her body and me.
“Can I. Take. Off. Your . . . bra?” I beg. I want to feel her
sexy body. Reaching under her shirt, I can feel her perfect
breasts: round and full. Tessa nods, breathless. My hands
shake as I quickly unclasp the hooks and let her breasts fall. I
pull the straps off her shoulders and down her arms. It requires
a lot of control for me not to rip her bra off. Tessa takes her
hands from me so I can remove her bra completely. I toss it
onto the floor, move my hands back to her breasts, and cover
her mouth with mine. I gently pinch her hardened nipples, and
she moans into my kiss. I like the way she kisses, soft but
frenzied. She wraps her small hand around my length and
moves her hand up and down, up and down. Tessa is bringing
me pleasure, in my bed, wearing my clothes.
“Oh, Tessa, I’m going to come,” I breathe. My body is out
of my control. Tessa has become the puppet master, gathering
and pulling every sensation out of me like the strings of a
marionette. I’m on fire and in an ocean of ice at once, and I
can barely keep my mouth from shouting her name. I
concentrate on kissing her, massaging her sweet tongue with
mine. My hands are still rubbing her chest. Her moans let me
know how much she likes it. I drop my hands from her tits as I
climax. The warmth of my come spreading through my boxers
feels like the relief of letting out a thousand breaths.
When the rush starts to diminish, I drop my head back and
close my eyes. Tessa stays sitting on my thighs. I’m glad.
Despite popular belief, I’ve died and gone to heaven, I’m sure
of it. I feel Tessa getting anxious, so I open my eyes and look
at her. I’m a little nervous about how well I’m catching on to
her little quirks. She smiles at me, and my nerves are calmed. I
smile back and lean in to kiss her on her forehead. She sighs
and I like the sound.
“I’ve never come like that before,” I share with her. I like
that she’s giving me new experiences.
“It was that bad?” she asks, horrified and jumping to
conclusions.
“What? No, you were that good. It usually takes more than
someone just grabbing me through my boxers.”
She stares into space and doesn’t respond. Something is off.
I try to repeat the last thirty seconds in my head to see if I
offended her. I don’t think I did. I decide to ask, “What are you
thinking?”
She doesn’t answer. She accuses me of being
uncommunicative, but she herself is that way with me.
“Oh, come on, Tessa, just tell me,” I complain. She always
tries to keep things from me but expects me to give her
thorough explanations all the time. So I decide to tickle her.
The old sitcoms I watched as a kid taught me that tickling is an
easy way to get women to talk, plus it adds flirty points. And I
need as many of those cute, little flirty things as I can get.
“Okay . . . okay! I’ll tell you!” Tessa shrieks, her legs
kicking like a horse’s. She looks silly with her face scrunched
up, teeth bared, kicking at me to stop tickling her. My stomach
is in a knot from laughing.
“Good choice,” I say, feeling the wetness in my boxers.
“But hold that thought. I need to take a quick shower and put
on clean boxers.”
I didn’t bring a change of clothes, and I only have shirts in
my car trunk right now. As I stand up, I look around the room
for an option. The dresser is full of clothes; Karen told me it
was. I’ve fought the idea—it’s creepy, really, that she filled up
a dresser of clothes for someone who doesn’t want anything to
do with her.
Fuck it. I don’t have any other options, and Karen really
isn’t that bad. I broke her entire dining room into pieces; I
guess I can make her happy by wearing her charity donations.
I hope for the best when I open the drawer. My hope is
crushed when my eyes meet a sea of plaid underwear. Blue
and white, red and white, green and red, red and blue, white
and green. It’s endless. I want to slam the drawer shut, but I’m
desperate here. I grab the least offensive one, a blue-and-white
pair, and hold it between my thumb and index finger as if it’s
contaminated.
“What?” Tessa asks. She lifts up, rests on her elbows, and
looks at me. I’m entertaining her; she’s having fun here. I can
see it in her eyes. Each minute I spend with her, I know her
better.
“These boxers are hideous,” I groan. Plaid? Cotton? Size
XL? Who is she shopping for?
“They aren’t so bad,” she lies. I hold the blue-and-white-
plaid monstrosity in the air and shake my head.
“Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Back in a minute.” I grab
the ugly-ass boxers and leave the room without looking back
at Tessa in the bed. On my way to the bathroom I pass
Landon’s room. I touch my ear to the door. I’m not surprised
when I hear some character in a movie say something about
elves. I knock lightly to be sure Tessa doesn’t hear me. I listen
for him to answer, but it’s late, so he probably fell asleep
watching Twilight. I knock again, and the door opens. His face
is relaxed at first, until he realizes that it’s me. I step toward
him, and he holds his hands up in front of him in defense.
“I’m not here to start shit,” I whisper. He’s an asshole for
assuming that I was.
I can tell he doesn’t believe me—not one fucking bit.
“Then what is it that you want?” he questions in a dubious-
sounding way.
I wave my hand in the air. “May I?” I ask him, gesturing
toward the room. I look inside his dark room and notice the
size of the TV on his wall. It has to be at least sixty inches. Of
course it is. There’s also a wall of signed jerseys hanging in
shiny frames, probably handmade by some sweet lady at the
craft store. She likely glued them together with her sweat, just
for Landon. He seems to get whatever he wants. He stands
only about two inches shorter than me and he’s got a lot of
muscle on me. Where my body is tall and lean, his is shorter
and more fit. He almost looks like a younger, nerdy version of
David Beckham. He’s dressed in a WCU T-shirt and flannel
trousers. There’s no hope for him.
He looks me up and down and raises his eyebrow at my
boxers.
“Fuck off—your mum is the one who bought them,” I snap
at him.
He raises his hand to cover his mouth so he can pretend
he’s not laughing. “I know, that’s why it’s funny.” He laughs to
himself at my expense, and I’m reminded how annoying he is.
“Never mind.” I push past him and head toward the
bathroom. I should have known better than to try to talk to
him.
He raises his hands. “Wait, I’m sorry. I just thought it was
funny because my mom still buys me those, even though I
keep telling her they’re terrible.”
I don’t laugh along with him, but the idea is a little funny.
“I wanted to talk to you about Tessa.”
He gets defensive. I watch as he stands a little taller and his
lips press together. “What about her?”
I push my hair back from my face. “I wanted to make sure
you know she’s . . .”
He raises his hands again, this time to shut me up. “Tessa
knows what she’s doing; she doesn’t need me acting like she
can’t take care of herself,” he says. His tone is stern, but
there’s no malice in it.
I have no idea what to say to that. I figured he would be the
douchebag, protective friend who would tell her to run as far
as she can from me.
“Well . . .” I hesitate in the hallway. “I’m gonna go to bed
now.” I look back at him as he’s closing his door and see a
smile on his face. Well, that was awkward—but went better
than I expected.
After showering, I go back to my room and find Tessa in
the bed, curled up like a kitten. Her eyes dart straight to the
boxers I’m wearing. Ugly things.
“I like them,” she lies.
These things are fucking horrendous. You can’t even see
how big my cock is. I shoot a dirty look at her before I tug on
the lamp chain and grab the remote. I’m surprised the fancy
Mr. Scott didn’t install a fucking holographic television in
here. I turn it to a random channel for background noise and
lower the volume close to silent. I climb into the bed and lie
next to Tessa, facing her.
“So, what were you going to tell me?” I ask her. She pulls
her lip between her teeth. “Don’t be shy now—you’ve just
made me come in my boxers.” I laugh at the irony of her
embarrassment. I wrap my arms around her and pull her close
to me.
I wait for Tessa’s dramatic performance to end. I love how
carefree she is sometimes. I seem to pull that from her, and
I’m proud of it. When my dramatic friend returns to normalcy,
her hair is a mess. Loose waves fall down around her face.
Without thinking, I touch her hair and push it behind her ear.
She has the tiniest little earrings on. They remind me of when I
went through a phase of wanting to gauge my ears until my
friend Mark’s got infected. They were disgusting, and the most
horrid odor came from them.
I need to think about something else.
I kiss her softly on the lips, and she takes over my entire
mind.
“Are you still drunk?” Her question is yet another example
of her being nosy and pushy.
“No, I think our little screaming match in the yard sobered
me up.”
“Oh, well, at least something good came out of it.”
I don’t know what to do with my arm. I should put it on her
back? I’m not sure. I face her and touch it to her back. “Yeah, I
guess so.” I rest my arm now, focusing on the way her head is
lying on my chest. She moves with each of my breaths like
she’s already gotten used to the position. I like that.
She’s smiling, a bright smile, for me. “I think I actually like
drunk Hardin better,” she says.
Drunk Hardin . . .
I can almost hear my mum’s voice shouting through our
small house. “You’re nothing but a drunk, Ken!”
I distract myself from the memories threatening to break
through and ruin this time with her.
She was probably teasing, anyway. I need to try to learn
how to think before I speak. Being around Tessa is very good
practice. “Is that so?”
“Maybe.” She pouts. If she thinks this foolishness is going
to make me forget that I want an answer from her, she’s dead
wrong.
Bringing the conversation back to the subject at hand, I say,
“You’re terrible at distractions; now tell me.”
“Well, I was just thinking of all the girls you’ve . . . you
know, done things with . . .” The moment she finishes, she
digs her head into my chest to hide.
That’s what she’s thinking about right now? All I can think
about is how I love the way her fluffy hair keeps tickling my
nose and that she smells like she rolled in vanilla perfume
before she came over. “Why were you thinking about that?”
She sighs as if I should catch on to what she’s talking
about. I have no idea. “I don’t know . . . because I have
literally no experience and you have a lot. Steph included.”
The bitterness in her voice is beyond evident. I imagine I
would be the same if she were to fuck Zed. The thought is
brief, but it comes with a sharpness that I didn’t expect.
I throw that out of my mind for now. Zed has no place in
this bed with her. I do wish he could see the way she’s looking
up at me, though, eager for my attention.
I can’t tell if she’s upset or jealous or curious. Sometimes I
can read her like a book, and other times the book is shut.
So, since I can’t figure it out, I decide to just ask her. “Are
you jealous, Tess?”
I hope like hell she is.
“No, of course not.”
She’s lying through her goddamn teeth.
I’m going to play with her. She practically asked for it. Her
body is so warm against mine. I’ve never lain like this in a bed
before, cuddling with a girl after coming in my boxers. I’ve
never done that before, and I’ve also never been that
connected to someone during any type of sexual activity, and I
sure as hell haven’t ever slept in bed with anyone before. “So
you don’t mind if I tell you a few details, then?”
She’s so quick to shriek, “No! Please don’t!” I tighten my
arm around her and laugh a little. I like that the idea bothers
her. I would rather drill holes into my eardrums than hear
about her fucking someone else. I stare at the ceiling and try to
remember if I ever even thought about what it would be like to
spend my nights with someone else in my bed. Outside of a
possible drunken thought or two, I haven’t. Tessa is quiet, too
quiet. I think she may have fallen asleep. I reach for my phone
on the table and check the time. It’s barely midnight.
“You’re not going to sleep, are you? It’s still early,” I tease.
“Is it?” Tessa’s voice is thick with sleep. She really was
going to pass out on me. Honestly, I could use the sleep, but I
want to spend more time with her. She yawns and I roll my
eyes.
I almost lie and tell her that it’s only ten. “Yeah, it’s only
midnight.”
I bet she sleeps the doctor-recommended eight hours every
night. That’s why she’s always so smiley and happy and shit.
“That isn’t early.” Her yawn is even cuter the second time.
She’s usually easily persuaded, so I’ll see what I can do.
“To me it is. Plus, I want to return the favor.”
Tessa tenses in my arms. I can imagine the flush of her
cheeks. Her mind is probably racing, imagining how a warm,
wet tongue will feel sliding up and down her pussy or drawing
small circles over her clit.
“You want me to, don’t you?” I ask in my lowest voice. She
shivers next to me, and that’s my signal. She looks up at me,
her lips turned up into a smile. I wrap my other arm around her
and softly turn her body and mine so I’m on top of her. In my
mind, her mouth is open in ecstasy. Her fingers are tugging at
my hair, and her sweetness touches my tongue. In reality,
Tessa wraps one leg around my back and pulls me closer. My
fingers graze over her thigh and up to her knee.
She feels so good under me. Her body is so tempting. I’m
convinced that she was sent here just to torture me, to test
every bit of my self-control. A small, soft voice in my head
reminds me that maybe, just maybe, she was sent here for the
opposite reason. Maybe I’m meant to be with her, to show her
a new perspective on life? It’s probably complete rubbish, but
maybe she’s not here to punish me—maybe she’s here to save
me.
“So soft . . .” I move my hand up and down her luscious
legs again. The reminder of what’s at the end of those legs is
thick in my mind and my boxers. She shivers again, her skin
rising into small bumps. I love the consistent way her body
reacts to me. Her lust never seems to falter; her body responds
to my every touch. I wet my lips and press them to the inside
of her knee. Her skin is so soft and tastes of vanilla. I could
devour her entire body within seconds. Self-control . . . self-
control . . .
“I want to taste you, Tessa.” I watch her eyes, waiting for
her to react. She has no idea of the level of pleasure I can bring
her. My tongue will drive her crazy—she’ll never want me to
stop.
Tessa’s full lips part, and she leans into me, waiting for me
to kiss her mouth. Her inexperience is both refreshing and
frustrating.
“No. Down here.” I tap her pussy over her panties, and she
sucks in a harsh breath. Her chest moves up and down, and it
seems like I can feel her hormones raging through her body.
With gentle strokes, I tease her, and the wetness on her panties
grows under my fingertips.
She’s already soaked, and I tell her so. She’s so beautiful,
and her beauty is even more radiant when she’s like this,
swollen and wet for me. “Talk to me, Tessa. Tell me how
badly you want it,” I urge her. It’s an obsession, to hear her
beg for me.
My fingers keep rubbing at her, focusing on her clit.
“I didn’t want you to stop.” She’s whimpering. I love it.
“You didn’t say anything,” I reply. “I didn’t know if you
were enjoying it.”
“Couldn’t you tell?”
I pull my body up to sit on top of her thighs. I can’t keep
my hands off her. My fingers trace the smooth skin on her
thighs, making her body jerk under me.
“Say it,” I push her. “No nodding—just tell me what you
want, baby,” I encourage her. I love hearing her tell me how
much she wants me.
“I want you to . . .” She inches her body toward mine. I try
to keep my hands to myself and let her come to me and tell me
what she wants.
I raise my brow. “Want me to what, Theresa?” I ask her.
“You know . . . to kiss me.”
I kiss her on her lips twice. She frowns.
“Is that what you wanted?” I tease her. She playfully slaps
my arm. I want to hear her beg for my tongue.
“Kiss me . . . there.” Just as I move to obey her, Tessa
covers her face and shakes her head. I can’t help but laugh as I
reach for her hands, lowering them. Her scowl is deep.
“You’re embarrassing me on purpose.” She’s actually upset.
When did this happen?
She rolls her eyes when I try to explain to her that I can’t
help it, I just wanted to hear her say the words. “Never mind,
Hardin.” She pulls the blanket over her body to hide from me.
Damn it. She’s lying the other way now, staring at the wall.
I hate that I made anything sexual a bad experience for her.
In bed with me is supposed to be her haven, the place where
she can shut off all thoughts and let everything go except for
the pleasure I’m bringing her. I fucked up, and now this
experience is going to piss her off every time she thinks about
it. I shouldn’t have pushed her this hard. She’s so new to all of
this and I’m a goddamn fool.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” I say into her hair. I hate fighting with
her. I was only teasing her; I just didn’t know when to stop.
I’m an idiot sometimes, in case she hadn’t noticed.
“Good night, Hardin.” Her voice is tough. She’s not in the
mood to play games with me, so I use every bit of strength I
have to let her be. The last thing I should do is push her even
further.
See, I’m learning, I want to say.
“Fine, you stubborn ass,” I grumble back. I watch her
breathing slow, then wrap my arm around her and try to fall
asleep. She sighs a few times, mumbling incoherent thoughts.
When she falls asleep, I sit up and watch her for a while,
wondering how long she’s going to be mad at me and if I’m
ever going to be able to figure out how to be a good boyfriend.
twenty-one
Everything was changing so quickly in his life, he barely had
time to keep up. He was happy . . . he’d finally learned what
the word meant. Every day was passing too quickly for him to
realize what was happening. When she opened herself to him,
he climbed right in, making a home inside of her. She
willingly gave him the deepest part of her innocence and he
took it knowing it wasn’t his to take, but he would be lying if
he said he didn’t wish she would never find this out. He was
loving her and using her, and he wasn’t sure how he could
reconcile the two. He loved her, and he knew this wasn’t an
excuse for all the mistakes he was making, one after another,
but he hoped that he could enjoy the time he did have with her
and possibly convince her that he was worth forgiveness.
I’m pulling into Tessa’s dorm parking lot and wondering what
the fuck my plan is. I had a clear idea when I left my place. I
was going to come to her room, tell her everything, and beg
for her forgiveness. It wasn’t a completely solid plan, but it’s
all I had. The guilt is eating away at me, gnawing at my
insides, begging for release. I’m terrified what will happen
when I tell her, but she deserves to know. She has to know.
I only had a little to drink. Just a few gulps to take the edge
off.
I can’t deceive her with my kiss or distract her with my
touch for another hour. The parking spaces for Building B are
never completely taken, and I park in the spot closest to the
sidewalk. Her dorm reminds me of an old apartment building
with a lot of windows, but the dark red brick gives it a creepy
institution-like feel. It has the least amount of supervision by
the staff of the university. I would know—I’ve been chased
both from Buildings A and D.
I type a quick text to Steph to tell her to stay the fuck away
from the room if she’s out. She doesn’t respond within a
minute, so I climb out of the car and hope she’ll be gone.
There’s a text from Tessa below that, telling me good night. I
should have responded. Why am I such a dick?
The hallway is empty, and I nervously stand in front of
room B20 instead of B22 without noticing for at least five
minutes. I can’t decide if I should I knock on the door. She’s
not exactly expecting me, but I’m sure she’s here. No, I
shouldn’t knock. There’s no reason to. My hands are shaking
when I turn the knob. As the wooden door creaks open, I walk
straight in, hoping I’m not met with a shoe to the head or a
dick in Steph’s mouth.
My eyes adjust to the dark room just as the lamp clicks on.
“What are you doing?” Tessa asks. She’s sitting upright, her
eyes squinting in the harsh light.
I pass Steph’s bed and stop a few feet away from Tessa’s. “I
came here to see you,” I say, and now that I’m seeing her,
something inside me shifts, calms. She turns to lie on her side
and rests one hand on her hip. When she sits up, her bare feet
hang over the edge of the mattress and her blond hair is wavy,
covering most of her back. The cotton T-shirt she’s wearing
looks so soft. I want to reach out and touch the soft fabric that
clings to her skin. I crave being able to run my thumb along
her forehead and brush the loose hair away from her face. I
need to touch the pout on her lips.
She frowns, her eyebrows push down her forehead, and she
looks like an angry kitten. “Why?” Her voice is high and very
whiny.
Not knowing what to do with myself, I sit down in the chair
at her tidy wooden desk. After a moment’s hesitation, I answer
truthfully.
“Because I missed you.”
Disbelief and anger are crystal-clear as she rolls her eyes.
Has she missed me?
Do I comfort her in her sleep like she does for me, or do I
haunt her dreams? I have no fucking clue.
She sighs and her shoulders slump. “Then why did you
leave?” Her words are soft. I take a moment to look around
Tessa’s dorm. Her bed is unkempt for once; the duvet is
bunched up at the end of the bed, and one of the pillows is
hanging off the small mattress. Steph’s side of the room is
messy, as usual, and I have to bite back a chuckle when I think
about how much that must drive Tess crazy. I’m surprised she
doesn’t clean her room while she’s alone in here. For all I
know, she does.
I shrug, and she crosses her arms in front of her chest. I
have a lot to say, Tessa, please be quiet for once . . . “Because
you were annoying me.”
She huffs and kicks her feet like a primary-school student.
“Okay, I’m going back to sleep; you’re drunk and you’re
obviously going to be mean again.” She shakes her head, and
her eyes fall closed. My chest burns from her anger, and my
fists burn from mine.
I try to convince her I’m not being mean, that I’m only a
little drunk, and that I wanted to see her. I desperately try to
stop myself from sitting on her bed with her. I want her to lie
back on the bed and let me touch her. I keep up my sweet talk
and try to make her smile.
She’s not buying it. “You should just go,” she says. She lies
down with her back toward me, turning to face the wall.
Stubborn little child, she is. It’s half infuriating and half cute.
If she wants to act like a child, I will treat her like one.
“Aww, baby, don’t be mad at me.” Her shoulders tense, and I
wish I could see her face. Though it was meant to annoy her,
the word baby feels so nice when attached to her. “Do you
really want me to go? You know what happens when I sleep
without you.” I hope that my vulnerability will touch
something in her.
She sighs dramatically, and I hold my breath. I don’t want
to leave. I don’t want her to want me to.
“Fine. You can stay, but I’m going back to sleep.” She
doesn’t turn around. I wonder how hard she would slap me if I
were to lie down behind her or grab her shoulder and turn her
to face me.
I don’t mind her sleeping, but I would rather be able to
enjoy her company. I had half of a plan when I showed up
here, and now that’s completely out of the question. She’s
already annoyed; she’ll be beyond talking to if I drop this shit
on her right now. “Why? You don’t want to hang out with
me?” I ask her.
Once again she tells me that I’m mean and drunk. I tell her
I’m neither, and that she’s just acting like a child.
“That’s sort of mean to say to someone. Especially when all
I did was ask you about your job,” she says.
My head spins; she doesn’t stop going in circles. “Oh God,
not this again. Come on, Tessa, just drop it. I don’t want to talk
about that right now.”
It dawns on me that if I just come clean, the majority of our
problems would go away. The problem is, she would go with
them.
“Why did you drink tonight?” Tessa questions me.
It seemed like a good idea. I was tense and miserable, and
when I tried to come up with a clear thought, I failed. Liquor
on my breath makes my confessions less important, less
offensive. I can utter drunk ramblings, and if she’s appalled, I
can deny the words tomorrow.
Fuck, I can’t stop lying.
“I . . . I don’t know . . . I just felt like having a drink . . .
well, drinks. Can you please stop being mad at me? I love
you.” I do love her and I need to be close to her. I hate when
she’s mad at me, but in a sick way, the fact that she worries
about me gives me comfort.
Her anger is softening with every second that passes. “I’m
not mad at you. I just don’t want to backtrack in our
relationship. I don’t like when you turn on me for no reason,
then just leave. If you’re mad about something, I want you to
talk to me about it.”
What is this, Dr. Phil? It takes me a moment to realize she’s
talking to me as if we have a standard dating arrangement.
Which we are the furthest thing from. She’s rambling on about
communication, when all she does is roll over on the bed and
give me the silent treatment. I’ve been busting my ass for this
girl, and she still isn’t pleased. I’m trying to be reasonable, to
not let my anger flare, but it’s so hard with someone like
Tessa, who pulls every trigger I have.
“You just don’t like not having control over everything,” I
fire back. I still can’t believe she’s trying to give me advice on
how to handle shit. As if she knows everything, the way she
thinks she does.
“Excuse me?” Her voice cracks. She leans up, resting her
elbows on her knees.
I tell her she’s a control freak. She denies it.
She asks me if I have anything else to insult her with, and I
ask her to move in with me. She looks as stunned as I thought
she would. I’m right with her, surprised that my mouth chose
this exact moment to bring this subject up. She studies my face
intently, as if she’s memorizing what I tell her about the place.
She’s excited, I can tell. But she’s also unsure, and not good at
hiding it. I’ll show her that she has nothing to be afraid of. I
can continue to be better for her and make her happy. I know
that I can. The energy between us has shifted drastically and
she’s biting into her bottom lip and teasing me and I can’t wait
to move in with her.
The hurricane of truths is floating above us, swirling and
building, ready to rain down any minute. I pretend we’re in a
novel and that she’ll forgive me as Elizabeth forgave Darcy. If
we were words on a page, she would find herself in my arms
again, no matter the depth of my mistake, just like Catherine.
She would crave the adventure that I bring to her life and find
it impossible to stay away, just like Daisy. The disaster can’t
touch us if we’re safe in our own world, our own apartment,
our own novel.
This place will be a fortress, not a prison, I silently promise
her. The words die on my tongue, and I turn to her again. She’s
staring, glossy eyes full of controlled excitement.
“So you’ll move in with me?”
Say yes, Tess. Please say yes.
She rolls her shoulders, and a hint of a pink bra strap
shows. I was under the impression she only owned white-and-
black cotton lingerie. I keep my eyes on her shoulder, waiting
for another peek.
“Jesus, let’s take this one step at a time. I’ll stop being mad
at you for now,” she says, doing her version of compromising.
“Now come to bed with me.” She lies down on the bed and
pats a spot for me. Suddenly I’m a yappy little dog whose
owner let them into the bed. I unbutton my jeans, pull them
down my legs, and toss them on top of a stack of textbooks
near Steph’s bed. I look at Tessa, and she’s focused on my
shirt, silently suggesting that I take it off. The thin cotton T-
shirt she has on is sexy enough, but there’s nothing like her
wearing my shirts. I absolutely love when she wears them to
bed.
When I take it off and lay it in front of her, her face breaks
into a beautiful smile and she lifts up her own shirt. Her
smooth skin is so sexy, the way her stomach curves into soft
breasts. My eyes nearly pop from my head onto the floor at the
sight of her lacy ensemble. I’m used to a soft cotton, no-form
bra holding her tits up, not a structured push-up bra with lace
lining the fabric.
“Fuck,” I can’t help but say. “What are you wearing?” This
girl is so goddamn sexy and doesn’t even have a fucking clue.
Her cheeks are a wild, deep red.
Her voice isn’t much over a whisper. “I . . . I got some new
underwear today.” She’s embarrassed even though she looks
like a goddess, with her long blond hair, her smooth legs, and
her pouty lips just begging for my cock to push through
them . . .
I immediately wonder what else she got today, and how
hard it would be to convince her to try it all on for me in a
private little show.
I’ve never been this turned on by a woman in my entire life.
She’s so fucking sexual without even trying to be, and she has
no idea how many women would kill to be her, to have her
sexy curvy body. “I see that . . . Fuck.”
Tessa shakes her head. “You already said that.” She loves
hearing it, though. Tessa blooms under my compliments, and
it’s highly, highly satisfying. It amazes me every day that she
doesn’t see herself for who she is. I repeat how beautiful she
looks, and she smiles more. I can’t possibly look away from
her tits, pushing up toward her, and I can’t possibly stop my
cock from pulsing under my boxers. Tessa’s eyes are focused
there, on my swollen cock straining against the black cotton of
my boxer briefs.
Tessa’s eyes are hungry as she flicks her tongue over her
top lip, gently sinking her teeth into it. She says something to
me, but I couldn’t repeat it if my life depended on it.
“Mmm . . .” I agree with whatever it is that she’s saying. I
can’t think of anything else except the way her body calls to
me; it’s like she was made for me. Using my knee, I support
my body weight over hers and press my mouth against her
full, wet lips. Her tongue is velvet and scotch, soft and sharp
as it swipes over mine, cutting through me and healing me at
once.
This is a dangerous game I’m playing, I’m walking along
the most fragile line, but I’ve developed a talent for balancing.
If she moves in with me, she’ll see how ready I am to be better
for her. She’ll see that one mistake counts for very little
compared to how much I love her, compared to what I can
become for her.
Her mouth is hungry on mine. She’s an expert at this; her
tongue moves with mine, and with every sound of hers I
swallow, I become more infatuated. I push my hand through
her soft hair, desperately trying to get closer to her somehow. I
press my body against her, needing some friction on my cock
before I combust. The relief rushing through my body when I
rub against her is frightening to me. She controls my mind and
my body, and I don’t know what she’ll do with them.
I lean up on my elbow, taking in her beauty. Her mouth is
dark pink now, and inside my mind I’m running through an
entire book of things I crave to do to her. My other hand traces
the soft pink lace across her chest; the thin fabric is barely
holding her in.
Patiently and ever so gently, I trace my fingers over the
cup, under the strap, and I push my fingers inside the fabric
and feel the hard pebbles of her nipples. She’s fucking heaven.
“I can’t decide if I want this to stay on . . .” I could spend
every hour of every day with her lying here, waiting for my
touch. I apply a pinch of pressure to her nipples, and she
moans in surprise.
I want her breasts bare in my hands. “Off it goes,” I groan.
I’m horny and impatient, and when she arches her back as I
unclasp the small hooks, I nearly come in my boxers. I palm
her fleshy tits, pushing them up and then down just to watch
the perfect way they move. Her tits are perfect—she’s my
living fetish. “What do you want to do, Tess?”
I want to do every fucking thing with her. I want to do
things I’ve never done, and experience things from my past in
a new way. “I already told you before,” she whines, pushing
her chest against my hand. Such a horny little freak she is.
Are we ready? Is she ready? I think she’s ready. She’s
panting, and I can see the crotch of her panties glistening
under the light of the lamp.
I run my hand down her stomach and to the hem of her lacy
panties. I try to control myself, but she moans and I need to
hear more of my favorite sounds. Fuck me, she’s got me
wrapped around her finger.
My fingers move to her pussy, and I tap gently over the
swollen mound, feeling how much she soaked her panties. Her
sweet scent fills the air, and I want to taste her. I push my
fingers into her, pumping into her to the knuckle. She cries
out, and her sounds seep into me as she wraps her arms around
me to steady her jerking body. She’s tight around my two
fingers, and she gasps each time they enter her pussy.
Tessa’s hands are frantic as she finds my thickness, palming
and squeezing and stroking me through my boxers.
“You’re sure?” I ask her. I need her to be absolutely
positive about this. I need this to be as perfect for her as it will
be for me.
It takes a breath for Tessa to realize that I’m speaking to
her. Her mouth is open, eyes wide. “Yes, I’m sure. Stop
overthinking it.”
I lean my head down and chuckle against her neck. The
irony of this is killing me. She’s the one usually overthinking
everything, but I’m the one who is now. I’m so close to finally
having her, and it’s tainted by the stupid Bet. The guilt I’ve
been holding on to since I grew to love her is flowing through
me. I’m battling within myself: the good boy who loves the
good girl and the bad boy who’s too broken to love anyone are
fighting with swords. Each one wants something different
from the princess. The boy in black gets knocked to the
ground.
“I love you. You know that, don’t you?” I say into her
mouth. Can she taste my panic?
If she can, she doesn’t show it. “Yes . . .” She kisses me,
slowly and softly. “I love you, Hardin.”
Tessa’s legs are gently kicking out as if her body can barely
handle the pleasure of my fingers sinking in and out of her
tightness. She’s a whimpering mess for me as images flicker
through my mind of her body writhing beneath mine while I
break her skin and claim her body. Not until she makes the
first move . . . I set up a boundary to keep. My mouth moves to
her neck to claim her in a different way. I suck at the soft skin
there, feeling the heat of blood rushing beneath the surface.
She’s mine.
“Hardin . . . I’m . . .” she whimpers when I leave her empty.
She’s so ripe, so ready to be fucking devoured. Suddenly I’m a
starving man. I need my mouth on her. I scoot back on the bed
and pull off her panties and spread her thighs. The smell is so
sweet, so intoxicating, I’ve never experienced anything close
to this hunger roaring inside of me. My lips peck a tender trail
down her stomach. She’s soaked. I can’t help but blow on it
and delight in the way she moans, lifting her ass off the bed. I
dive in.
Her taste fills my senses as my tongue swipes wide licks up
and down her. With each moan, my tongue licks harder, more
precisely, and she fists her white sheets to keep from
screaming.
“Tell me how good it feels,” I say, making sure to blow a
breath against her with each word.
She chokes out, “So . . .”
I suck at her and lick her into a shaking, whimpering state.
I want to give her all the encouragement she needs. “That’s
it, baby, come for me, I need to feel it on my tongue.” She
obeys. I’m high with her as she orgasms for me. I’m no longer
drunk with liquor; now I’m drunk with power.
I climb up her body, my cock probing at her stomach, and
kiss her. She snaps out of her sated state and kisses me hard.
She’s already ready for more. I’m impressed. “Are you . . .” I
ask her, to be sure.
She nods frantically, lifting her lips to mine. “Shh . . . Yes,
I’m sure,” Tess begs. The sharp ends of her fingernails dig into
my back as she takes my mouth again. Her lips suck at mine,
her tongue pushes through my lips, and I’m high again. Her
hands push my briefs down my ass and legs, and the sensation
of being bare and so fucking hard against her skin has me
manic.
I need to be inside of her—I have to make her body mine.
This is going to change everything. Neither of us will ever
be the same again. She will no longer be an innocent girl; she
will be a woman with a sex life. She will have to check the
sexually active box at the doctor’s office. She will get married
one day and have to tell the guy that she fucked me. Any talk
of her past sexual experiences will be filled with me. I feel
immense guilt but extreme satisfaction. It’s a liberating but
frightening experience.
“Tessa, I . . .” I have to tell her. My body is ripping itself
into two pieces.
“Shh . . .” she whispers. She has no idea what she’s saying.
I feel the weight of my body on hers, such a perfect fit. I
look over her face, trying to save this moment forever. “But,
Tessa, I need to tell you something . . .”
“Shh. Hardin, please stop talking.” She’s begging me now.
Her eyes are full of love and excitement. My life is changing,
and right now, I’m going to change everything. She takes
control before I can get a word out and presses her lips to
mine. Her hand wraps around my hard cock, and she jerks me,
tempting and hushing me. I inhale a sharp breath when her
thumb swipes over the bead of precome on the tip.
“I’m going to come if you do that again,” I whine. I want to
feel her delicate fingertips tracing over the head of my cock,
teasing me, making me beg for more.
More than anything, I need to bury myself inside of her.
Now.
I assume she doesn’t have any condoms and only feel slight
shame that I always carry one out of habit. I have few rules
when it comes to sex, but using a condom is a complete must
for me.
Tessa is watching me from the bed as I gather my jeans off
the floor and dig through the pockets. I feel like a pervert,
carrying a condom around in my wallet in anticipation of
fucking.
One look into Tessa’s eager eyes banishes that thought, and
I climb back onto the bed, condom in hand. I wait a second for
her to take the condom from my hand, but she doesn’t. No
shit, Sherlock, she’s probably never seen one outside of Sex
Ed.
“Are . . .” I don’t know how to ask her if she wants to try to
put it on me. Some women like to, some don’t.
She raises her voice. “If you ask if I am sure, I will kill
you.”
I believe her.
So I decide to go with option two, which is to cherish this
moment while I have her. I shake my head and wave the
condom in front of her. “I was going to say, are you going to
help me put this on, or should I do it?” I would be quicker, I’m
sure.
Tessa looks nervous as she chews on her lip. My cock is
aching for her. I’m tempted to just fuck her without a condom.
I have to remind myself that that’s a stupid fucking idea.
“Oh. I want to . . . but you have to show me how.” She’s so
shy and so damn sexy. Her tits, so heavy and round, are
distracting me. I need to speed up this process.
“Okay,” I agree. Tessa scoots closer to me and crosses her
legs. I’m happy to show her, but I’m only halfway in reality.
Mostly I’m already on top of her, pushing into her. She’s
moaning and clawing at my back and my arms. She’s begging
for more, she’s coming and I’m claiming her.
“THAT WASN’T SO BAD for a virgin and a drunk,” Tessa
teases when the deed is done and the condom is on. I remind
her that I’m not drunk and explain that her sassy mouth has
caused me to sober up.
“Now what?” she asks, genuinely wondering.
I guide her hand to grasp my cock. “Eager?” I ask her.
She nods her head.
“Me, too,” I say. I am eager, I’ve never wanted anything
more. She’s still jerking me; my hardness is wrapped in her
palm. I move between her legs and part them with my knee.
Once again, her pussy is glistening for me. “You’re soaking
wet, so that will make it easier.” I can smell her again. She’s so
responsive, and it drives me fucking mad. I kiss her mouth,
dotting my lips against the corners of her soft lips, her nose,
her mouth again. Tessa’s arms wrap around me, and I inhale as
she presses me closer. I brush against her wetness and nearly
explode. She’s impatient, pulling me closer.
I warn her. “Slow, baby, we need to go slow.” I kiss her
temple. I don’t want to hurt her. I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.
“It’s going to hurt at first, so just tell me if you want me to
stop. I mean it, okay?” I stare down at her. Her pupils are
blown out, her cheeks flared, and her hair a wild mess across
the pillow.
“Okay.” She swallows nervously. I stare at her, silently
reminding her how much I love her, need her, cherish her.
With a deep breath, I find her opening and push gently inside.
Her tightness clings to every inch that I push through, and I
stop when her eyes screw shut.
“You okay?” I ask, breathless. She’s nodding, her lips in a
hard line. She’s so warm, so tight for me.
“Fuck,” I moan when she groans, tightening again.
“Can I move?” Fuck, I need to move. I knew she would feel
like heaven, but I had no idea how fucking extravagant heaven
would be.
She takes a few breaths before answering. “Yeah,” she
agrees. I go slow, not wanting to hurt her. I can feel her easing
up her grip on my arms with each kiss I give her. Her neck, her
pretty mouth, her nose. I love every inch of her body. Every
inch of my body.
I repeat to her how much I love her as I slowly draw in and
out of her. Her eyes are still closed, but she’s not showing any
unusual signs of discomfort. When twenty seconds pass and
she hasn’t responded, I stop. “Do you . . . fuck . . . do you
want me to stop?”
She shakes her head and I close my eyes again. I can
picture every inch of her under me. Her smooth skin, her body
molding to mine. She’s mine now and forever, even after we
leave this bed. I maintain my pace, and she keeps her arms
wrapped around me. I can feel my heart in my chest, pumping
and coming alive as I climb closer to the edge. I’ve never felt
anything during sex.
I feel alive and brilliant, and when I look down at my love,
she’s looking back at me with radiant admiration, and I know
now that somehow, everything will be okay.
Tessa’s strength surprises me again as a silent tear rolls
down her cheek. I kiss it away and give her the praise she
deserves. “Fuck, Tess, you’re doing so good, baby. I love you
so much.” I push my fingers into her hair and suck at the
sweat-coated skin of her neck.
“I love you, Hardin,” Tessa declares. That’s all it takes and
I’m there.
I kiss at her mouth, licking at her lips and tongue with a
feverish hunger. “Oh, baby, I’m going to come. Okay?” My
spine is on fire, her skin is shining with sweat, we are wild.
Tessa nods, encouraging me to spill into her. In this
moment, I have a hatred for the barrier between us. I want to
fill her—I want to make her mine in every way. Her lips suck
at my neck and I tense, my body giving in to the pleasure, and
I spit her name through clenched teeth as I reach my climax. I
lie on her chest, catching my breath, and she lazily caresses
my skin.
Everything has changed now. I’ve changed everything
between us. I comfort her and ignore the pushing and pushing
of the truth, which is threatening to burn me alive. As I
comfort her, I pray to whoever is listening that my world
doesn’t turn to ashes.
twenty-two
Everything began to unravel for him, and the flimsy little
house of cards he built was becoming shakier and shakier with
each passing day. At each mention of his lies, he would panic,
scrambling to come up with a plan. He was convinced he had
been cursed as a child . . . there was no other explanation for
the suffering he had been dealt. He was beginning to question
whether Tessa was his saving grace or his biggest curse. He
had her, every part of her, yet she was slipping away with
every passing second.
Tessa is at her internship when I go by her room a few days
later. Molly has been telling me Steph is going off the deep
end. She’s dropping hints that Steph may be losing her fucking
mind, and I need to talk to her before she does.
When I get to the room, Steph is lying across the bed, her
red hair a thick mess. Chunks of curls are stuck with pins on
her head. Her makeup is dark; smoky gray shadows her lids,
making her look like a haunted version of a Valley girl. Her
skin is white and her lips are a dark red.
“She’s not here,” Steph announces, and shuts the screen on
Tessa’s laptop. What’s that doing here? “I’m only watching
movies. Relax, psycho.”
I grab the laptop from her bed and slip it under my arm. “I
know she isn’t. I wanted to talk to you,” I tell her. She raises
herself up on her elbow, and her boobs push against her tight
dress, revealing more than an eyeful.
“Talk to me about what?” Her eyes are cold as she waits for
my answer. I’ve always known something is loose inside her
mind, but I can never tell just how dangerous it is. Everyone
has a screw or two loose, but in Steph’s case, it feels like
something more sometimes. I used to think she was a cool girl,
but she ended up more like the redheaded version of Amy
Dunne’s crazy ass.
“You know what.” I sit down on Tessa’s bed and turn my
body to face Steph.
“Molly called you,” she answers, connecting the dots.
“She’s becoming such an annoying little cunt. Isn’t she?”
Steph rolls her head back and sits up. “I’m not going to say
anything to Tessa. I know that the only reason you’re here is to
beg me not to say shit to her. I’m not going to.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that?” I question her, and she
rolls her tongue against her teeth.
“Believe me or not. I got my fun from it. I’m bored with it
now, and I’m starting to feel a little bad for her.” To be honest,
this completely surprises me.
“You are?” I scoot to the edge of Tessa’s mattress and rest
my elbows on my knees.
She begins to laugh—a feral, high-pitched laugh—and I
sigh. I should have known. “No, of course not. I am bored
with it, though.” I watch as she tugs at her dress to show me
more of her chest. I look away.
This is for Tessa. I need to not make a scene.
“You’re almost done with her by now anyway, I’m sure.”
Almost done with her? Has she lost her fucking mind?
“Aren’t you? You fucked her—now you’re done with her.
That’s how it goes with you.”
The weirdest thing about this is that Steph isn’t giving me
shit, she’s just making a statement. Given my history, her
assessment would be accurate, except I’ve spent much longer
working on Tessa than I did on any of the others.
Tessa made me fight for her because she was fucking worth
it. Too bad I ruined everything.
“No . . .” I clear my throat. “I’m not done with her.”
Steph’s eyes roll and she licks her lips. “I knew you
weren’t. How many times have you fucked her now? Is she
actually still tight? I mean, with the way you ruin things.”
My eyes must be ready to pop out of my head when she
looks at me, because she moves farther away from me.
“Is she?” Steph repeats. “I’m sure she’s nice and used up
for you. Now you can move on, and she can go away. I see her
enough as it is.”
“You really don’t like her.” I rub the back of my neck.
Tessa thinks Steph is her friend, and I don’t want to get in the
middle of that unless I have to. If Steph ever tries to pull
anything on Tessa, though, I would take care of it.
“No, I don’t really like her. Let’s move on. Just dump her
and go back to getting BJs from Molly every other day.”
“I’m going to still be seeing Tessa.” I don’t know how to
say this to her. I don’t want her to have more power over me
than she does, but I also don’t want her to be under the
impression that Tessa isn’t a permanent fixture in my life.
She isn’t a permanent fixture, but I’m still praying to find a
way for this to work.
But that’s not Steph’s business. Fuck, this is a mess. A huge
fucking mess.
“Why did you come here, Hardin? I know it wasn’t just to
check on my big mouth.” She licks her lips again and pushes
her elbows against the sides of her chest in the least subtle way
possible.
My temper flares momentarily, and I stand to my feet.
“You’ve lost your fucking mind if you think I would touch
you!”
“Tessa’s nothing special. I don’t know why you and Zed are
both so fucking obsessed with her.”
“Zed is not relevant in this conversation.” My hands are
shaking, and I can see that Steph’s growing more and more
pleased with herself and the reaction her mention of Zed is
getting out of me.
Don’t let her get to you, Hardin.
She’s antagonizing me purposely, and I’m letting her. What
is that thing my gran used to say?
Shit, I don’t remember.
“Zed is a pretty relevant—”
“Enough.” I press my hands together and bring them to my
face. I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe in, breathe out.
I came here to talk to her about Molly’s worries, to make
sure that Tessa wouldn’t be torn from me by any crazy or
vicious action on Steph’s part, but now I’m here and Steph is
being an exceptionally terrible human being, and honestly, I
just feel like being a dick. Steph acting like Queen of the
Assholes makes me feel like I’m not any different than I was
before Tessa. I thought I was better than her and the others
somehow, but here I am. I’m going to be sitting right next to
her in hell.
I can’t help but push her. I thrive on making her feel as
shitty as I do. I look at Steph and put my biggest grin on my
face. “Maybe you should worry about your own boyfriend and
the way he always stares at Molly. I’ve seen them alone a few
times . . .” I say some other things about them—I don’t even
know what, really—and by the time I finish my lie, her eyes
are watering, shining red in my triumph.
“You’re lying.” She’s trying to hold in her tears. Gotcha.
“Nope, too bad for you,” I tell her. I put Tessa’s laptop in
the top drawer of her dresser. I need to get her out of this
dorm, and soon.
Before Steph can get another word in, I leave the room.
When I get into my car and common sense starts kicking in, I
realize that I made another dumb fucking move. Steph isn’t
like most girls. She won’t sit on her anger and wait for the
right moment to strike. She’s irrational, and I can see her
spilling every detail of the Bet to Tessa, exaggerations
included. I should just tell her—I should tell Tessa every
disgusting truth before she finds out. This is eating me alive.
I climb back out of the car and walk back to the dorm room
to try another route with Steph.
But I hear Tessa’s voice as soon as I reach the door. Fuck.
I lean against it, listening to the girls’ conversation. “I don’t
think Tristan would go for her; I see the way he looks at you.
He really cares about you. I think you should call him and talk
it out,” I hear Tessa say. I press my ear harder against the door
and hope that no one walks by.
“What if he’s with her?” Steph asks.
She actually believed that shit?
“He’s not,” Tessa comforts her roommate.
“How do you know? Sometimes you think you know
people, but you don’t,” Steph begins.
Fuck this. Steph’s going to tell her. She’s going to tell her
right fucking now.
“H—”
I open the door.
“Hey . . .” I say when I step into the room. They seem to be
bonding; an outsider would be fooled. “Um . . . should I come
back?”
“No, I’m going to go find Tristan and try to apologize.”
Steph stands up. “Thank you, Tessa.” She hugs Tessa and
stares at me, letting me know that she’s not done here.
Distraction—I need a distraction. “You hungry?” I ask Tess
as Steph gets ready to leave.
“Yeah, actually I am,” she says, rubbing her hand over her
stomach. She’s distracted now and doesn’t seem to notice the
awkward hate stare Steph is firing at me.
twenty-three
His paranoia took hold of him, dragging him further and
further away from her. He tried to grasp on to the tiny sliver of
hope that he could have the life he wanted to have with her. He
tried to come up with plan after plan to save the only good
thing that had ever happened to him. He begged his enemies,
pleaded with his friends, for their silence. None of his plans
would work, none of them could hide what he did to her, and
he knew it was all going to blow up in his face.
I take Tessa to the mall, where my shitty luck continues as we
sit in the food court before deciding which stores to go to.
Paranoia seems to be haunting me, stalking me wherever I go.
I can’t stop thinking about everything Steph could have told
her. Does she know everything I’ve been hiding from her?
Will she finally see me as I am, not worthy of her?
I pick at my meal, lost in my head, while Tessa eats slowly,
watching me the entire time. What is she looking for? Signs of
my lies coming to the surface?
“We can find your outfit first, I guess?” I say. I still can’t
believe I agreed to go to the wedding. It’s going to be so
fucking awkward for me, and my only plan at this point is to
focus on Tessa and not remember a damn thing that happened
earlier than three months ago.
“Well, you have the luxury of looking beautiful regardless
of what you wear.”
Her cheeks light up at my flattery. “That’s not true; you’re
the one who definitely pulls off that ‘I don’t give a crap how I
look but I look flawless’ look.” She’s laughing, and my chest
aches a little less at the sight.
“I do, don’t I?” I smile at her. But she carries that look off,
too. Much more than I do, and she doesn’t even try.
Tessa’s phone vibrates on the table. She’s acting pretty
normal for someone who knows they are being toyed with this
way. Maybe she’s acting normal on purpose to distract me
until she can play me and get her revenge.
Or maybe she really doesn’t know?
“It’s Landon,” she says as I read his name on the screen.
My chest stops pounding out of control. She answers the
phone and I watch her mouth as she speaks. She sucks on her
lower lip for a few seconds and looks me up and down.
I have to come up with a way to prevent her from ever
being alone with Steph. I need to keep her closer from now on.
I’ve been too casual about this whole thing. I should have her
by my side at all times.
“Okay, well, I’ll do my best to get him in a tie,” she says
into the phone, and it’s obvious who she means by “him.”
She presses her hand to her cheek and rests her elbow on
the table. She looks adorably pushy. But a tie? Good luck with
that.
Tessa starts saying something else to Landon, but my
attention goes to the middle of the food court, where Zed,
Jace, and Logan are standing. They’re all dressed in different
ways, each trying to make a statement about who they are by
means of their wardrobe. Logan is the preppy, kind of punk
kid with a baby face, and is less badass than the other two.
Zed, the tall and dark one, looks like he’s modeling leather
even though he’s in a middle-class mall. He looks out of place.
Jace looks like the delinquent, the one all the teenage girls
should stay away from.
“I’ll be right back.” I stand up from the table, leaving my
food. Thank God she’s on the phone, so she won’t follow. Not
immediately.
Logan’s rubbing a small tube of ChapStick over his lips
when I reach them. Jace is looking awfully fucking smug, and
Zed’s looking pretty stressed out. “Nice to see you, too,”
Logan says, and taps his foot against the linoleum while Jace
laughs a breathy, stoner-y laugh. The three of them have
dilated pupils and thin red veins mapping their eyes. They
smell of pot and stale cigarettes. If Zed and Tessa kissed,
would she like the taste of tobacco on his tongue?
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask, checking on Tessa
out of the corner of my eye.
“Where? At the public mall?” Jace asks.
I take a breath, silently threatening him. If he fucks this up
today, I’ll have no problem hurting him.
“We were just in the area,” Logan explains. He shrugs his
shoulders and looks at me with some sort of understanding. He
knows what I’m worried about, and somehow he’s telling me
that’s not why they’re here. “Really.” He pushes this, and I
slightly relax.
“Where’s your little pet?” Jace flicks his tongue out in a
disgusting way. Zed cringes, and Logan ignores all of us and
stares at the cracked screen of his iPhone.
“Oh, she’s over there!” Jace’s voice rises, and I nearly jump
him. He’s the nastiest type of guy, much like my old friend
Mark, who played with people like toys and had no remorse
about his shitty actions. I guess I’m the same way, though, I
think, regarding the Bet, and at the end of the game the group
of us played, I was the one who held the winning piece.
“Cut the shit,” I say, stepping forward, and Jace smiles a
wicked smile. He loves how agitated he can make me. He’s
pressing buttons on me as we speak. He knows it, I know it,
and soon Tessa will know it, too.
“She’s coming over here.” Logan is still staring at his
phone, but he’s warning us of Tessa’s arrival. My palms are
soaking, and the skin on my knuckles is straining each time
my nails dig into my palm. They’re going to ruin my life right
now, here in this mall in some shitty town in America.
“Hey, Tessa, how are you?” Zed moves toward Tessa, and I
take a step forward. He wraps his arms around her, and I could
easily rip them from his body at the sight.
“Hardin, aren’t you going to introduce your friend?” Jace
stares at me, humor dancing in his bloodshot eyes.
“Um, yeah.” I wave my hand between the two of them,
counting the seconds we’ve been letting this drag on. “This is
my friend Tessa; Tessa, this is Jace.”
Tessa’s brows bunch together in anger, and I look around,
confused. Why is she mad? I study her face and wait for her to
look at me. She doesn’t.
“Do you go to WCU?” she asks Jace. Why does she always
have to make polite small talk with people? It’s obvious that
she hasn’t had a lot of social experience; she seems to have
zero sense of etiquette.
“Hell, no. I don’t do the college thing.” He laughs, and
Tessa relaxes a bit. “But if all the girls there looked like you, I
would be happy to reconsider.”
Tessa looks a little frightened, and I’m mentally counting
the shades of blue I can turn Jace’s face via strangulation.
“We’re going to the docks tonight; you two should make an
appearance,” Zed says.
An appearance? Fuck you, Zed.
“We can’t. Maybe next time,” I say, ending the
conversation.
“Why not?” Jace asks, clearly challenging me in front of
Tessa and Zed.
“Tessa has to work tomorrow. I suppose I can drop by later.
Alone.” I make it clear to all of them. They won’t be in the
place, ever again. It’s going to be hard, but I’m foolish enough
to think I can possibly pull this off. I won the Bet, she’s mine,
and Zed can fucking rot, for all I care.
“That’s too bad.” Jace smiles at Tessa, and I struggle to
keep my shit together. He’s taunting me. He’s dangling this
devil’s game I agreed to play over my head like I’m a little rat
and he’s got a nice piece of cheese for me.
“Yeah, I’ll hit you up later when I’m on my way,” I lie to
him.
I have to think of what the fuck I’m going to do about him.
He’s itching to find a time to tell Tessa about the Bet . . . he’s a
fucker like that. But I know if I bring it up to him, it will only
encourage him to open his big mouth or plant the idea of
telling if he hadn’t thought of it yet on his own.
The three of them walk away, and Tessa stares daggers into
their backs. I stay silent and follow Tessa’s temper tantrum
through Macy’s. She walks faster in a childish, petulant way to
prove a point and throw a fit.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. Something always seems to be
wrong with her. I’m saying something, doing something,
someone’s cat looked at her the wrong way . . . it’s always
something.
“Oh, I don’t know, Hardin!”
“Me either! You’re the one who just hugged Zed!” I yell at
her. Her arms around Zed is the only thing I can think of right
now, and she’s starting shit with me?
“Are you embarrassed to be with me or something? I mean,
I get it, I’m not exactly the cool girl, but I thought—”
I don’t understand what she’s getting at here. She thinks
I’m embarrassed about being with her? Why does she always
go to this?
“What? No! Of course I’m not embarrassed about you. Are
you crazy?”
She is crazy, though. We both are.
“Why did you introduce me as your friend? You keep
talking about living together, and then you tell them we’re
friends?” Tessa’s voice is growing louder with each word.
“What are you going to do, hide me? I won’t be anyone’s
secret. If I’m not good enough for your friends to know that
we’re together, then I don’t want to live with you.”
How can I call her more than a friend? She’s going to hate
me more than an enemy when my time runs out with her. She’s
so much more than a secret to me. I’m not trying to hide her. I
don’t want to keep her hidden any fucking more. I want to
show her off proudly and let every motherfucker know that
she’s mine. Only mine. But I’m too stupid to be able to make
things work between us, which is why I have to hide the most
beautiful thing, the only treasure, in my entire life. I have to
hide her instead of letting her bloom in the sunshine, and it’s
eating me alive from the inside out.
“Tessa! Damn it . . .” I trail off, and she glances toward the
dressing room in the women’s clothing section of the store.
“I’ll follow you,” I warn her. I mean it, too. I’d like to follow
her inside that dressing room and fuck her against the full-
length mirror.
She raises her eyebrows and purses her lips. She knows
damn well I will follow her. I’d follow her to the deepest pits
of hell if she merely asked me to. “Take me home. Now,” she
demands of me. Take her home? All because of a stupid fight?
Tessa makes her point by walking way ahead of me out of the
store and back to my car. Once outside, I try to open the door
for her, but she won’t have it.
“Are you done throwing a fit?”
“A fit? You aren’t serious!” She’s gone to shrieking now.
“I don’t know why it’s such a big deal to you that I called
you my friend; that’s not what I meant. I was just caught off-
guard.” A half-truth.
“If you’re embarrassed about being seen with me, then I
don’t want to see you anymore.” Her voice is shaky. She’s
trying to stop herself from crying. I’m familiar enough with
her ways by now to know that she’s digging her fingernails
into her thighs and her gray eyes are filling with tears. More
tears that I caused her to shed.
“Don’t say that to me.” I run my hand over my oily hair,
wanting to yank it out piece by piece. “Tessa, why do you
assume I’m embarrassed about you? That’s just fucking
ridiculous.” I don’t have any reason to be embarrassed about
her; if anything, it’s the other way around. To my friends, she’s
now a joke; every fucking moment I’ve shared with this girl
has now been diminished to nothing. I turned everything into
nothing and she’s going to find out soon and there’s nothing I
can do to stop this freight train from tearing into my life once
again. I had just begun to build it up, and now I’ve gone and
fucked everything up.
“Have fun at your party tonight,” she says with a pout from
the passenger seat.
“Please, I’m not going to the docks with them. I just said
that so Jace would lay off.” Which is true. I don’t want to go to
a stupid party. I want to be buried between Tessa’s thighs all
night.
“If you aren’t embarrassed of me, then take me to the
party.”
I should have known she would throw in this one.
Everything is always a game to her, everything.
I’m one to fucking talk.
“Absolutely fucking not,” I say.
OF COURSE WE WENT to that fucking party, because, once
again, Theresa Young got her way.
As the days go by, I’m more comfortable in my own lie
than I care to admit. I pretend that everything isn’t slowly
crumbling, that tiny pieces of everything that holds us together
aren’t chipping away with each minute that passes that I don’t
tell her. I can’t tell her. I can’t open that can of worms and let
them destroy us. The truth will drown us; there’s no way
around that. It’s inevitable, the same way my love for Tessa is
inevitable.
“Well . . . welcome home?” I call through the apartment
when the real-estate agent leaves us alone, finally. I thought he
would never fucking leave. Tessa laughs, covering her mouth
with the back of her hand, and steps toward me. I wrap my
arms around her, thanking whoever gave her to me for letting
her stay a little while longer before she’s ripped from my life. I
deserve a shred of happiness while it lasts, don’t I?
“I can’t believe we live here now. It still doesn’t seem real.”
Her wild eyes are curious, excited and alive in a way they
haven’t been since I met her. I’ve given her freedom in such a
large gesture. I’ve given her a beautiful apartment where she
can be herself, the version of her that no one can judge or
demand things from. Her mum isn’t here to tell her to brush
her hair, and Steph isn’t here to think of manipulative ways to
hurt us.
“If someone had told me I would be dating you—let alone
living with you—two months ago, I’d have either laughed in
their face or punched them . . . either one.” I laugh and bring
her face between my hands. She’s so warm, her cheeks alight
with excitement.
“Well, aren’t you sweet?” She rests her hands on my hips
and leans into me. Her head is heavy on my chest, my anchor.
My life is perfect for the first time since I can remember. I’m
completely ignoring the catastrophe that’s coming my way, but
for now my life is perfect. “It’s a relief, though, to have our
own space. No more parties, no more roommates and
community showers,” Tessa adds. My chest pounds against
her cheek, and I wonder if she can sense my growing paranoia.
“Our own bed.” I mask the feeling with humor. “We’ll need
to get a few things—dishes and such.” The more things she
has here, the harder it will be when it’s time to leave. Fuck,
I’m trapped in this lie and tying the ropes around her as we
speak. This beautiful girl will never forgive me, she won’t.
I’ll think about it later. I’ll figure something out.
She brings her hand to my forehead and lightly applies
pressure. “Are you feeling okay?” She grins. “You’re being
awfully cooperative today.” Her sarcastic humor makes me
care for her even more.
I bring her hand to my lips, peppering the back of it with
kisses. “I just want to make sure you’re pleased with
everything here. I want you to feel at home . . . with me.” And
I do. I’ve never felt like I had a home until Tessa signed along
those dotted lines to move in with me. Waking up to her
annoying alarm clock every day has grown into something I
need, something I was missing and didn’t know it.
“And what about you? Do you feel at home here?” Her
voice is full of hope. It’s tenuous hope, though . . . she’s
waiting and expecting me to deliver a ruthless opinion about
our living situation. I can see it in her eyes; she’s hopeful, but
she expects the worst from me because that’s what she always
gets.
“Surprisingly enough, yes.” I answer her honestly while
trying to make my voice sound as convincing as possible. I
really do love it here, with her.
“We should go get my stuff,” she suggests, then tells me
about the books and clothing I’ve already taken care of.
“Already done.” I smile.
She tilts her head in confusion. “What?”
“I brought all of your belongings from your room; they’re
in your trunk.” I just couldn’t wait. I wanted her to see the
place and never leave. I need her to never leave here, so I
needed to make her as comfortable as I could.
“How did you know I’d sign the lease? What if I hated the
apartment?” She turns her cheeks up at me, curiosity and a
challenge filling them.
“Because if you hadn’t liked this one, I’d have found one
that you did like,” I tell her.
She nods, acknowledging that I’m completely serious.
“Okay . . . Well, what about your stuff?” she asks me.
“We can get it tomorrow. I have clothes in my trunk.”
“What is with that, anyway?”
“I don’t know, really. I guess you just never know when
you’ll need clothes.” She’s nosy, so nosy. I keep clothes in the
trunk of my car for many reasons; most of them she surely
wouldn’t like to know. “Let’s go to the store and get all the shit
we need for the kitchen and some food,” I suggest.
Tessa turns to me when we step into the lobby. “Okay. Can
I drive your car again?”
“I don’t know . . .” I tease her. But of course she can drive
it.
part three
AFTER
He was finally becoming the man he’d never known he could
be. His rage was channeled into his writing, and he was
becoming proud of the person he was. She was the only reason
his life turned out this way, and he would fall at her knees and
thank her every second if he could. She stayed by him until it
was no longer good for either of them, and then she gave him
time to sort his life out on his own. She supported his choices
month in and month out and never failed to make him strive
for more.
During that time, each month he was sober, he would get a
card in the mail, the old-fashioned way, with her name and a
heart. He knew her well enough to be sure that the two years
they spent apart weren’t easy for her. It was hell for her,
eternal purgatory for him.
When the handwritten words from his binder became lines
on a printed page, she didn’t call for a week. He knew she read
the book, and he was sure she spent the entire week pacing
around the small apartment she shared with his brother. He had
moved into a new place by then, adjusting to a windy city with
tall buildings and an overabundance of hot dogs and baseball.
It didn’t feel like home there, though she visited him more
times than he deserved. His days went on like this, working,
waiting for her to call or email, planning for the next time he’d
be able to see her. As he became more and more worthy of her,
he started to like the man he saw in the mirror each morning.
When that week was over and she finally did call, her voice
cracked on her first word, and he couldn’t find the right thing
to tell her. He wanted her to understand that no two people
were more right for one another. She congratulated him on his
book, but with a cool distance. He grew tired, wondering if
this would be his life, alone in a high-rise apartment eating
takeout while watching reruns of Friends.
Weeks later, he couldn’t stop his heart from racing when
she called to tell him about her visit to his city, how there was
a wedding she needed a date for. She danced with him the
entire night and lay beneath him in his bed for three days . . .
Until she left, taking his heart with her.
He visited her next, in chaotic New York City, and was
impressed with her new life. But he missed his place in it. She
had a good thing going there: friends and family. He had an
imaginary life with her, and he was waiting for her to come
around and make it a reality. Seeing it as his only hope for a
good life, he continued to show her that he was a better person
than he used to be. Much better. More alive.
At some point, his development as a human being, and the
ways it showed in his behavior with other people, started to
make him feel valuable, and with that came heavier
responsibilities. His brother suffered a heartbreak, and he
made sure he was available to talk and help him through it. In
different ways, big and small, he found himself feeling of use
to his family.
He was the best man at his brother’s wedding. She was
there, glowing with her love for him, and somehow they both
realized, mercifully, that their separation had run its course.
They were both grown now, more equipped to handle the
world together. He had stopped being selfish; she had figured
out who she was. The time apart had done them good, but they
were ready to begin their lives together.
Together, they suffered heartache—greater than any they
had caused each other in their early years—and sometimes
they didn’t know if they could go on. On the loneliest day of
all, when he packed up the room of their lost child, he
wondered if he was being punished, if his past sins were the
reasons why they had to deal with such a loss.
The day his first child was born, so was he. Reborn, alive
again. He had come such a long way, and he had changed.
Reaching both a deeper and a higher level of love and
understanding became possible for him. The little girl’s fingers
were small, but she had wrapped them around his heart. He
watched the girl he had loved for years turn into a woman, and
then a mother to his child. There was nothing more beautiful
than that . . .
Until she became a mum a second time, to their little boy.
As their children grew older, this new man and his
woman . . . they somehow felt younger, falling in love all over
again each day.
He felt so lucky, so gifted, so tremendously proud of the
life they built together; he couldn’t believe what a lucky
bastard he was.
Zed
Every novel has its own take on the romantic hero. Most
novels use that classic trope that we’ve all grown tired of: the
Love Triangle. Wickham lied about Darcy’s father to gain
Elizabeth’s affections. Jay Gatsby wined and dined Daisy
Buchanan, offering her a life her husband, Tom, couldn’t.
Linton was the safe choice of my favorite heroine, Catherine
Earnshaw, who chose him over a life of destructive passion
with Heathcliff. Even a tan and buff werewolf boy tried to win
the ever-so-witty Bella Swan’s heart over that sparkly ancient
vampire lover dude.
It’s been done over and over again, and since he’d lived this
through story after story, he thought it laughable when he
found himself in his own real, actual love triangle. In his own
story, the bad-boy-turned-wannabe-saint with daddy issues
tries to keep the stubborn innocent virgin away from the
trendy and emotional boy who wants to save the flowers and
the planet all in a day’s work. The classics end with most of
the aforementioned characters’ deaths, or the birth of half-
vampire babies, but they all have a common theme: one of the
two men never stands a chance, and when it came to his
relationship with her, he didn’t know if how much she cared
for him would mean he would win out in the end.
Still, they deserve props, the other guys who get back out
into the game after losing to the obvious suitor.
Another party. Another overcrowded party where everyone
does the same shit on a different day. Drinks are poured into
red cups, and the music blasts from room after room. Every
person I pass as I walk down the hallway looks even more
bored than the last, so I find it odd that this year’s kickoff
party is much more crowded than last year’s. Where do all the
people come from? Has everyone become so bored with
themselves that they cling to a large group of other people
pretending to have amazing social lives? I’m beginning to see
that’s all college is. Washington is very different from where I
grew up in Florida, but colleges seem to be the same
everywhere you go.
“I need to piss,” I complain to the air as I lean against the
wall next to the bathroom door. A few moments later, a petite
girl with blond shoulder-length hair steps out of the bathroom.
Her gaze turns down toward the floor when she walks past me.
She’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt that extends down to hug
the curves of her hips perfectly despite her loose, even baggy
jeans.
“Excuse me,” she says, and smiles at the carpeted floor as
she maneuvers past me and down the hall.
I step into the bathroom and close the door. The small space
smells like artificial vanilla spray. It’s quite disorienting, so I
piss quickly, wash my hands, and open the door . . . and step
into a crowd of girls. One of them looks me up and down, her
eyes widening as she takes in my features. I can almost read
her mind. She opens her mouth to speak, but when I look over
her head, the blond girl with the killer hips is standing at the
top of the stairs. I watch as she goes to grab something from
her back pocket, but coming up empty, she licks her lips and
rolls her eyes. I can feel her attitude from here. I had made it a
point not to look for anyone for a while after the Tessa thing,
but I find myself moving down the hallway toward the blonde.
I’m not looking for anything serious, but I could use a decent
conversation at this point.
As I near the top of the staircase, her small hand wraps
around the metal post in a very delicate manner. I take a few
steps closer to look at her, and she descends the stairs slowly
and cautiously even though she’s wearing sneakers. Her hair is
thick, covering half of her back. I watch as her eyes scan the
crowd. She’s aware of her surroundings—I can tell by the way
she rests her eyes on every face she sees. Is she looking for
someone? I watch her teeth pull in her top lip and decide to
approach her. Her jeans are rolled at the bottom, and I can
make out the shape of a star near her ankle.
“Are you looking for someone?” I ask her.
When she turns to face me, her brown eyes are big, nearly
too big for her face, which makes her seem slightly terrified. “I
was looking for my friends, but I think they left.” She frowns.
“Oh. Do you want me to help you find them?” I offer.
Continuing to look around the room, she reaches past my
face and lifts a baseball cap off of a passing guy. He grumbles
and she smiles, only slightly embarrassed and somewhat
desperate seeming.
I look at her, wondering why she did that. “My friend John
is wearing a cap, too,” she explains. I can’t tell if she’s timid
or aggressive yet, but I want to find out.
“Can’t you call them?” I ask.
“No, my phone is in my friend’s purse,” she says with a
sigh. “I didn’t want to have to bring one. I knew I shouldn’t
have come here. Parties aren’t my thing.” Her voice grows
louder, and she begins to gesture with her hands. “And yet
Macy begged and begged. It will be fun, she said—we’ll only
stay for an hour, she said.”
With a little huff her nose crinkles up, and I bite down on
my bottom lip to keep from laughing.
She flushes, embarrassed. “What?”
“Nothing,” I lie. She’s pretty damn cute. “Do you want a
drink or something?”
“I don’t drink often,” she says softly.
“Often or at all?”
“Sometimes, but definitely not at crowded parties with a
bunch of strangers.”
“Well, I guess that makes sense.” I smile, letting her know
that I find it kind of cool that she’s not feeling the need to get
wasted like the rest of the girls here. Or the boys, for that
matter.
“It’s not like I can’t have fun without being trashed.”
“Okay.” I nod, finding her more attractive by the second.
“Well, I can get you some water or pop and you can hang out
with me and my friends until you find yours?”
“Um, I’m not sure.” She looks around the living-room-ful
of strangers. “I don’t know anyone, and parties like this are
usually pretty shady.” Her gaze moves to two drunk guys
circling a group of freshman girls in small dresses.
She’s got a point.
Nate waves at me from across the room, and I look at this
intriguing girl once more.
“Well, if you decide you don’t want to stand here alone,
you’re more than welcome to join us over there.” I point
toward the group and watch her eyes widen as she takes in the
hundred or so tattoos among the lot of us.
“They’re nicer than they look,” I tease. When she smiles
uncertainly, I add, “Well, some of them, anyway.”
She surprises me by barking out a little laugh and then
following me over to my group of friends. Tristan stands up,
allowing her to sit on the couch, and she politely thanks him. I
haven’t seen him too much lately, but I’m glad he’s back from
Louisiana, single and officially done with Steph’s bullshit.
“Here’s to the last year of this college bullshit.” He raises
his cup and taps Logan’s. Molly joins in and adjusts herself on
his lap.
“Ugh, not for me—I still have two more,” Nate complains.
The girl he’s been seeing—Briana, I think—rolls her eyes,
mutters what I think is a playful “Drama queen,” and grabs his
cup to take a drink.
“I should have gone to a trade school.” He tilts his head
back, and the girl watches him in amusement. “College
fucking blows.”
“I told you you should have taken that apprenticeship at the
tattoo shop,” she scolds him. He rolls his eyes and tugs at the
tiny strap holding her shirt on one of her shoulders; half of her
deep brown skin is showing, but I sure as hell don’t mind.
“I’m still thinking about it,” he tells her. Honestly, it sounds
like a decent play, since he’s having such a hard time finishing
college.
“Anyway, enough of this boring career-planning shit.
Who’s this?” Molly points to the girl I met in the hallway.
“This is . . .” I look at her for help. I forgot to ask her damn
name.
“Therise,” she says, and I get a tiny hint of an accent I
hadn’t noticed before.
Damn.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” Molly laughs, leaning
against Logan.
“Nice name.” Jace smirks, licking along the edges of the
rolling paper in his hands.
“Wanna play a game, Therise?” Molly says with a tone I
know. “Truth or Dare?” She looks to me, and I shake my head.
“No, no one wants to play that shit,” I say, glaring at Molly.
Therise is clueless and looks anxious and slightly
uncomfortable.
“Oh, come on. I bet it would be fun,” Jace says.
Molly nods along. “Yeah, from the looks of her, maybe you
could win—”
Logan reaches up and covers his girlfriend’s mouth. I still
can’t believe these two are together.
“Cut it out,” he says to her.
She rolls her eyes but stays quiet once his hand moves from
her big mouth.
“I’m not having any part in a repeat of last year. That was
too much drama.” Logan kisses Molly’s bare shoulder, and she
smiles, for real this time, looking far less evil while doing so.
Therise looks at me with a wrinkled brow, then at everyone
else and their suddenly weird energy. “What was last year?”
she asks.
“Nothing,” I proclaim, and look at my friends, hoping
they’ll keep their mouths closed. I just met this girl—it’s too
early for her to be bombarded with this crap.
“This guy named Hard—” Molly just can’t keep her mouth
closed.
“We aren’t going to talk about Hessa anymore!” Logan
groans. “They’re like that reality-show couple that no one was
supposed to mention.”
“What the fuck is a Hessa?” Nate’s girl asks.
Molly proudly raises her hand. “I came up with it!” she
practically shouts. “I get full credit for that shit. I named those
crazy fucks, and I expect an invite to their wedding.” She
laughs. Her hair is a washed-out pink; it’s faded a lot, and she
hasn’t dyed it in a while. It’s mostly blond now and in an elvin
haircut.
“They aren’t getting married,” I snap at her.
I’m so tired of hearing about those two. I’m tired of seeing
Tessa’s posts on Facebook. She’s so happy in New York;
Hardin’s so happy; everyone is so damn happy.
Yay for them.
“Not right now, but I would bet money on that shit.” She
smiles. “And I? I would win.” She’s drawn circles around her
eyes with black pencil, and when she winks at me, she looks
like a cat.
Logan adds salt to my wound by nodding sagely to this.
Like it’s so obvious to everyone.
Molly waves her hand for silence among the group.
“Anyway, before you all came, we were reliving the grand tale
of Zed’s ex-girlfriend.”
“Wasn’t my girlfriend,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Damn,” someone says. Jace, maybe?
“Well . . .” Therise stands to her feet and awkwardly cracks
her knuckles. “This is when I leave.” She smiles hesitantly and
walks away.
I must have a pained or annoyed or angry expression—I felt
all of those things—because Logan pipes up, “You may as
well let her go; you’re only going to gain another enemy. She
probably has a boyfriend who’ll slash the tires on your truck.”
Apparently my friends have all decided they’ll give me shit
all week about my history of expensive mistakes.
This expectation that my dating life will always be one
disaster after another deflates my anger a little bit. I don’t have
the energy to be mad, really, when it’s always the same. “I
didn’t know that chick was engaged, and I’m pretty sure it was
her, not her fiancé, that did that shit,” I say, and cringe when I
remember what Jonah Soto did to my car. That dude should
not be able to hold a professor position here. Total nutcase.
Nate shrugs, taking a swig of his drink. “Stop sleeping with
random chicks, then.”
“That was over a year ago, and how was I supposed to
know that her fiancé was going to be a professor here?”
That whole weekend was a disaster. If I’d known the chick
was at the club for her own bachelorette party, I wouldn’t have
gone home with her. I mean, there’s a reason tradition dictates
they wear those tacky feather boas and fake tiaras and that
sash that reads BACHELORETTE or something. It’s like a fair-
warning label so that guys don’t do something stupid—or she
doesn’t do something stupid. The sash is like the first thing
you’d have to take off, so it being there is a big reminder to
her that, oh yeah, she’s getting married. In this case—the very
next day.
It was just my luck that the only time in my life I had a one-
night stand, this was the result. (I may have led my friends to
believe a generally exaggerated version of my sex life, but
they don’t need to know that.) The guy was cool, cooler than I
would have been, until he tried to get me removed from the
science program and fought to keep Hardin from being
expelled. No one seemed to question why a young professor
would take the side of a troublemaker he doesn’t even know.
That was bullshit, but at the end of the day, I’m glad Hardin
wasn’t expelled.
“Who are you all talking shit to, anyway”—I wave an arm
at the group—“because Molly here has fucked half of you.”
“Watch it,” Logan warns, and everyone tenses.
But instead of arguing with him, I choose to follow after the
new girl.
I don’t know her, but she seems chill and she’s drop-dead
gorgeous. Yes, she reminds me of Tessa, and yes, it’s taken a
long time for me to get over that one, and maybe this is a bad
idea—but aren’t most things?
With all that swirling through my mind, I get up to find her.
I didn’t mean for the situation with Tessa to become what it
did. I cared about her, yes, but I got caught up in my stupid
jealousy and petty need for some type of revenge against
Hardin for his having sex with Samantha. I did like Tessa a lot,
but my feelings for her were nothing close to the way Hardin
felt about her.
Samantha was amazing; she was fun and a few years older
than me. That was a turn-on, but she was wild. Since this thing
with Tessa ended, I’ve often thought her relationship with
Hardin was equivalent to what I had with Samantha. But
Samantha slept with Hardin, and didn’t see much of a problem
with it. She acted like it was a normal thing to do, to sleep
with my friend. He didn’t care either, of course.
I cared. I was devastated and pissed, and I let it fester inside
of me, waiting for the right time to strike back at him. Tessa
trusted me, even after my involvement with the Bet in the
beginning. I was the one who told her the details about it, and
she always came to me when she needed me. That was the
problem, though: she only came to me when he tossed her to
the side, and I’m not about that kind of thing. I don’t want to
always be second choice. And besides, it was too much drama,
and after the initial win of getting under Hardin’s skin, it
became exhausting to keep running to her rescue and keep up
with their childish relationship.
I should have left her alone after her psycho boyfriend hit
me the first time. But no, his anger only spurred me to keep
going and win. Why should he get to sleep with Samantha,
then participate in the Bet, and then get to decide when
everything’s okay and settled and the game’s over and I have
to stop caring?
It was all so childish. I can see that now. I shouldn’t have
tried to come on to her that night at her mom’s house, and I
shouldn’t have said half the shit that I did. My stupidity has
kept me single since then, and I haven’t heard from Tessa in
over a year. The sad thing is that I miss talking with her.
I’ve been told she moved to New York City with her friend
Landon, but I know it won’t be long until Hardin follows her
there. As much as I hate to admit it, they have something
special between them. As dysfunctional as they are, I’ve never
seen two people fight for each other the way those two do.
Hardin sure as hell doesn’t deserve her, but it’s not my place to
interfere, not anymore.
I step outside and scan the yard for Therise, then spy her
perched on top of the broken stone wall, bringing another
memory to mind. She’s picking at the chipped stone, and when
I approach her, she moves to jump down.
“Wait.” I hold up my hand and wave it in a gesture of
peace. “I can help you find your friends or find someone to
give you a ride home.”
“I don’t know.” She eyes me carefully, watching for hints
of a serial killer, maybe.
“It’s only a ride home. My friends are loudmouths, but none
of them will hurt you. I’ll come along if you wish. I’ve been
drinking, so I can’t take you.”
I raise a brow to her; she shakes her head. “Wow, so the
cute punk boy does have some common sense.” She smiles,
mocking me in a sweet way.
“Sometimes,” I admit with a shrug. I reach out to shake her
hand. “I’m Zed.”
She hesitates for a moment before reaching for my hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Z-ed.” She says my name like she’s
afraid to swallow it.
“Nice to meet you, too, Therise.”
Landon
He hated the perfect boy before he even met him. When his
dad told him he was getting a new brother, it was like he was
expected to be happy about it. He was supposed to suddenly
care about things like family and dinners and baked goods so
he could keep up with his father’s new son.
When he met this other child, his hatred only grew. He
knew he didn’t have a reason beyond pure jealousy to hate
him, but still he did. He couldn’t name athletes or keep up
with sports like his father’s new son could, and he couldn’t
charm the table at a dinner party. He knew he couldn’t
compete with the boy, but as he changed his life, he realized
he’d never really had to. He fought so hard—too hard—to
keep his distance from the Golden Boy who in the end would
become his closest friend.
The first three thoughts that go through my mind each day
are:
It’s less crowded here than I thought.
I hope Tessa is off work today so we can hang out.
I miss my mom.
Yes, I’m a sophomore at New York University, but my
mom is one of my best friends.
I miss home a lot. It helps to have Tessa around; she’s the
closest thing to family I have out here.
I know college students do this all the time; they leave
home and can’t wait to be away from their hometowns, but not
me. I happened to like mine, even if it’s not where I grew up. I
had a plan at the time I applied to NYU; it just didn’t work out
the way it was supposed to. I was supposed to move here and
start my future with Dakota, my long-term girlfriend from
high school. I had no idea that she would decide she wanted to
spend her first year at college single.
I was devastated. I still am, but I want her to be happy, even
if it’s not with me.
The city’s chilly in September, but there’s barely any rain
compared to Washington. So that’s something, at least.
As I walk to work, I check my phone, like I do about fifty
times a day. My mom’s pregnant with my little sister, and I
want to be sure that if anything happens I can get on a plane
and be there for her quickly. So far the only messages from her
have been pictures of the amazing things she whips up in the
kitchen.
Not emergencies, but, man, I miss her cooking.
The streets are crowded as I make my way through them.
I’m waiting at the crosswalk with a crowd of people, mostly
tourists with heavy cameras around their necks. I laugh to
myself when a teenage boy holds up a giant iPad to take a
selfie.
I will never understand this impulse.
When the light turns yellow and the crosswalk sign starts
flashing, I turn up the volume on my headphones.
Out here I pretty much wear headphones all day. The city is
so much louder than I had anticipated, and I find it helpful to
have something that blocks some of it out and at least colors
those sounds that get in with something I like.
Today it’s Hozier.
I even wear the headphones while working—in one ear at
least, so I can still hear the coffee orders shouted to me. I’m a
little distracted today by two men, both dressed in pirate
outfits and screaming at each other, and as I walk into the
shop, I bump into Aiden, my least favorite coworker.
He’s tall, much taller than me, and he has this white-blond
hair that makes him look like Draco Malfoy, so he kind of
creeps me out. On top of his Draco resemblance, he happens to
be a little rude sometimes. He’s nice to me, but I see the way
he looks at the college girls who come into Grind. He acts like
the coffee shop is named after a club rather than coffee
grounds.
As he smiles down at them, flirting and making them
squirm under his “handsome” gaze, I find it all pretty off-
putting. He’s not that handsome, actually; maybe if he was
nicer, I could see it.
“Watch it, man,” Aiden mumbles, slapping my shoulder
like we’re crossing a football field together in matching
jerseys.
He’s making record time in annoying me today . . .
But brushing it off, I head into the back and tie my yellow
apron around my waist and check my phone. After I clock in, I
find Posey, a girl who I’m supposed to be training for a couple
of weeks. She’s nice. Quiet, but she’s a hard worker, and I like
that she always takes the free cookie we offer her every
training day as an incentive to be a little happier during the
shift. Most trainees decline it, but she’s eaten one every single
day this week, sampling the variety: chocolate, chocolate
macadamia, sugar, and some mystery greenish flavor that I
think is some gluten-free all-natural localvore thing.
“Hey,” I say, smiling at her where she leans against the ice
machine. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, and she’s reading
the back of one of the bags of ground coffee. When she looks
up at me, she smiles a quick greeting, then returns her eyes to
the bag.
“It still makes no sense that they charge fifteen dollars for a
thing of coffee this small,” she says, tossing the bag to me.
I barely catch it and then it nearly slips from my hands, but
I grab it tightly.
“We.” I correct her with a laugh, and sit the bag down on
the break table where it came from. “We charge that.”
“I haven’t worked here long enough to be included in the
‘we,’ ” she teases, and grabs a hair band off her wrist and lifts
her curly reddish-brown hair into the air behind her. It’s a lot
of hair, and she ties it up neatly, then nods her signal that she’s
ready to work.
Posey follows me out to the floor and waits by the cash
register. She’s mastering taking customers’ orders this week,
and will likely be making the drinks next. I like taking orders
the most, because I would rather talk to people than burn my
fingers on that espresso machine, like I do every shift.
I’m putting everything in order at my station when the bell
attached to the door sounds. I look over to Posey to see if she’s
ready, and sure enough, she’s already perked up, all set to
greet the morning’s caffeine addicts. Two girls approach the
counter chatting loudly. One of the voices strikes me, and I
look over at them to see Dakota there. She’s dressed in a sports
bra, loose shorts, and bright sneakers. She must have just
finished a run; if she were leaving for a dance class, she’d be
dressed slightly differently. She’d be wearing a one-piece and
tighter shorts. And she would look just as good. She always
does.
Dakota hasn’t been in here in a few weeks; I’m surprised to
see her now. It makes me nervous; my hands are shaking, and
I find myself poking at the computer screen for absolutely no
reason. Her friend Maggy sees me first. She taps Dakota on
her shoulder, and Dakota turns to me, a big smile on her face.
Her body is coated in a light layer of sweat, and her black
curls are wild in a bun on her head.
“I was hoping you’d be working.” She waves to me and
then to Posey.
She was? I don’t know what to make of this. I know that we
agreed to be friends, but I can’t tell if this is just friendly
chatting, or something more.
“Hey, Landon.” Maggy waves, too. I smile at both of them
and ask them what they’d like to drink.
“Iced coffee, extra cream,” the duo says at once. They’re
dressed nearly identically, but Maggy is easily overshadowed
by Dakota’s glowing caramel skin and bright brown eyes.
I go into automatic mode, grabbing two plastic cups and
shoving them into the ice bin with a smooth scooping motion,
then pulling up the pitcher of premade coffee and pouring it
into the cups. Dakota is watching me. I can sense her eyes on
me. For some reason, this is making me feel quite awkward, so
when I notice that Posey is watching me, too, I realize I could
—should, probably—explain to her what the heck I’m doing.
“You just pour this over ice; the evening shift makes it the
night before so it can get cold and not melt the ice,” I say.
It’s really basic, what I’m telling her, and I almost feel
foolish saying it in front of Dakota. We aren’t on bad terms at
all—we just aren’t hanging out and talking like we used to. I
completely understood when she ended our three-year
relationship. She was in New York City with new friends and
new surroundings. I didn’t want to hold her back, so I kept my
promise and stayed friends with her. I’ve known her for years
and will always care about her. She was my second girlfriend
but the first real relationship I’ve had up to now. I’ve been
hanging out with So, a woman who’s three years older than
me, though really we’re only friends. She’s been great to
Tessa, too, helping her get a job at the restaurant she works at.
“Dakota?” Aiden’s voice overpowers mine as I start to ask
them if they want me to add whipped cream, something I do to
my own drinks.
Confused, I watch as Aiden reaches over the counter and
grabs Dakota’s hand. He lifts their hands into the air, and with
a big smile she twirls in front of him.
Then, taking a glance at me, she inches away just a bit and
says more neutrally, “I didn’t know you worked here.”
I look at Posey to distract myself from eavesdropping on
their conversation, then pretend like I’m looking at the
schedule on the wall behind her. It’s really none of my
business who she has friendships with.
“I thought I mentioned it last night,” Aiden says, and I
cough to distract everyone from the noise I just made.
Fortunately no one seems to notice except Posey, who tries
her best to hide her smile.
I don’t look at Dakota even though I can sense she’s
uncomfortable; in reply to Aiden, she laughs the laugh she
gave my grandma upon opening her Christmas gift last year.
That cute noise . . . Dakota made my grandma so happy when
she laughed at the cheesy singing fish plastered to a fake
wooden plank. When she laughs again, I know she’s really
uncomfortable now. Wanting to make this whole situation less
awkward, I hand her the two coffees with a smile and tell her I
hope to see her soon.
Before she can answer, I smile once more and walk to the
back room, turning the sound up on my headphones.
I wait for the bell to ring again, signaling Dakota and
Maggy’s exit, and realize that I probably won’t hear it over
yesterday’s hockey game playing in my ear. Even with only
one bud in, the cheering crowd and slaps of sticks would
overpower an old brass bell. I go back out to the floor and find
Posey rolling her eyes at Aiden as he shows off his milk-
steaming skills to her. He looks weird with a cloud of steam in
front of his white-blond hair.
“He said they’re in school together, at that dance academy
he goes to,” Posey whispers when I approach.
I freeze and look toward Aiden, who is oblivious, lost in his
own apparently glorious world. “You asked him?” I say,
impressed and a little worried about what his answers would
be to other questions involving Dakota.
Posey nods, grabbing a metal cup to rinse. I follow her to
the sink, and she turns on the hose. “I saw the way you acted
when he held her hand, so I thought I’d just ask what was
going on with them.” She shrugs, and her big mass of curly
hair moves.
Her freckles are lighter than most I’ve seen and are
scattered across the top of her cheeks and the bridge of her
nose. Her lips are big—they pout a tad—and she’s nearly my
height. These were things I noticed on her third day of
training, when I suppose my interest flared up for a moment.
“I dated her for a while,” I admit to my new friend, and
hand her a towel to dry the cup with.
“Oh, I don’t think they’re dating. She would be insane to
date a Slytherin.” When Posey smiles, my cheeks flare and I
laugh along with her.
“You noticed it, too?” I ask.
Reaching between us, I grab a pistachio mint cookie and
offer it to her.
She smiles, taking the cookie from my hand and eating half
of it before I even manage to get the lid back on the bin.
Christian
The connections we have with family are supposed to be soul
binding. We’re supposed to love our parents and siblings and
the rest simply because we are born with the same blood
running through our veins. As a young child, he would
question this. Was he supposed to love the stumbling man
whose loud voice regularly woke him up on school nights?
The man whom he would walk out into the living room and
see there, leaning against the fireplace mantel in a struggle to
take his boots off? The little boy would keep his body hidden
behind the wall as he watched the man struggle and fall to the
floor. Then he would hurry back to his room as the man’s boot
hit the wall near his head.
He hated those nights and he would count the days until his
mummy’s friend who laughed a lot would come over. He
would wish that his mum’s friend was his dad. Maybe this
other man would take him places, he used to think. He
remembered the man always carrying a book tucked under his
arm. He talked about the books with the boy, telling him their
plots, their themes, making him feel smart and grown-up.
The first book the man gifted him he will always remember.
That book quickly became the boy’s first real friend, and as he
grew older and his mum’s friend came around less and less, he
remembered missing him and missing the books during the
long periods between visits. Still, even into the boy’s
rebellious teenage years, when the man arrived, he always had
books with him. The boy knew his mum loved her friend, but
he had no idea just how much of his life was a lie because of
that fact.
The house is silent. I glance over at Kim, asleep on the couch
with Karina lying on her stomach; the girl’s little hands are
gripping her mum’s sweater. Kim fell asleep talking to her
about me and my accent, telling our little girl that she will
have the most adorable voice, a mixture of Mummy’s sweet
tones and Daddy’s devilish accent. “Devilish,” she called it.
As if the woman can afford to talk. She’s the most stubborn,
devilish woman on this earth, and I love the hell out of her.
Kimberly has gone from being my secretary to my business
partner, and she has quite an eye for potential. Perhaps that’s
why she married me. Or maybe she just really, really likes my
son, Smith. It would be pretty hard not to.
A pile of pages sits before me on the counter: a contract for
the New York restaurant we’ll be opening in the next year. As
exciting as it is, it’s nothing compared to my newborn. I’ve
now expanded my investments in restaurants from Washington
to New York to Los Angeles, but it’s nothing compared to the
joy of getting to see this girl grow up before my eyes,
something I’ve not been fortunate enough to have done with
my other children.
I glance over at my wife again; snoring louder than usual.
So I do the sweet, loving thing and pull out my phone to
record her. The contract can wait until tomorrow. I miss my
wife. I watch her as she takes breath; the noise is horrendous.
I press record and quietly walk over to the couch. Within
five seconds, she opens her eyes, immediately glaring at the
phone in my hand, and instantly I feel like an arse for
disrupting her sleep when she gets so little of it anymore.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” my love whispers,
her voice soft and sleepy as she stretches her arm above her
head, keeping her eyes on Karina.
“Yes, my dear, but fucking with you is much more fun.” I
laugh, and she kicks her foot out at me. Karina stirs on her
chest, opening her little beady eyes to look up at her
obnoxious parents.
“Now you’ve done it,” Kimberly scolds me with a smile.
She sits up and lifts Karina at the same time, and when I reach
for my daughter, she gently places the soft bundle in my arms.
“My beautiful little girl,” I quietly say to Karina, nudging
her chubby little cheek with my nose. She yawns, and I see so
much of my smile in her face. Smith and Hardin both have that
same dimpled smile.
I remember Anne and Ken discussing names for the little
boy one night when we were all standing around in their
kitchen. Trish’s belly had been so swollen that she couldn’t tie
her shoes.
“I like the name Nicholas or Harold,” Ken had suggested.
Harold? No.
Nicholas. Double no.
Trish had smiled softly, rubbing her hand on her bump.
“Harold—I kind of like that.”
Admittedly, I didn’t hate the name—it just didn’t feel right.
That boy was tough on Trish’s body, kicking her all night and
growing so quickly that he stretched her skin to incredible
lengths. He was a fighter, that kid . . . the name Harold—
Harry—it was too sweet of a name, too calm.
“It’s too common,” I’d interjected before Ken could say
anything. “How about the name Hardin?”
It was a name I had picked out for my first child while I
was only a teen. As a little boy in Hampstead, I used to think I
was going to write a great novel one day and the main
character would be named Hardin. Not typical, but very
convincing-sounding for old England.
Trish sounded it out to see how it felt on her tongue.
“Hardin. I’m not sure . . .”
But when she looked to her husband—who I was so jealous
of in that instant—he’d just shrugged, uninterested but trying
to be courteous.
“It sounds fine,” he said quietly.
His shoulders did another shrug, and Trish smiled a weak
smile. “Hardin? . . . Hardin.”
“There we have it, then,” Ken declared, looking very
relieved.
Trish didn’t seem surprised or even bothered by his mild
reaction to the choosing of their first son’s name. I cared,
though, and I knew Trish really did as well.
I would like to think that Ken would normally have cared,
but he was in college and always busy, I had reasoned at the
time. He studied so much, and rumors flew that he’d started
snorting the devil’s candy while studying for his law exams.
His pupils were usually dilated, but he had to study a lot, and I
got that. I wasn’t anyone to judge him, but I knew he had been
slipping on the facade of being a perfect dad to the little guy,
trying it on uncertainly, long before the tyke was even here
yet. That bothered me more than it should have, given the
situation I’d gotten myself into.
Two decades ago . . .
The sun is hot, blazing for Hampstead in April. Trish lies
beside me on the grass, the wind whipping her thick brown
hair across my face, which she found to be the most
entertaining moment of her entire sixteen years in this world.
Most of the time she’s mature for her age, going on and on
about her theories about the world and its leaders, but in this
moment she’s choosing to be the eleven-year-old version of
herself.
I push her hair away from my face for the tenth time.
“Weren’t you supposed to be cutting that gargantuan
mane?” I ask cheekily as I scoot my body a few inches away
from hers. Last week she claimed that she was planning to cut
all of her hair off to prove some point, but I forget what the
point actually was.
Hampstead Towne Park is nearly empty today, so Trish’s
laugh echoes off the trees enclosing us in the grass. We come
here often, but most of the time Ken misses our meetings
because he’s so busy.
“I was considering it, but this is too much fun,” she replies.
Trish rolls her body closer to mine and throws her brown hair
across my face once more. It smells like flowers and a little bit
like mint. It’s a scent that always pulls me in. Her body is
pressed to my side, and she kicks her leg up over mine.
I should move it, but I don’t. It feels too nice there.
“What if babies were born with long hair?”
Her question is random, but not one bit surprising. Trish
Powell is known for her questions. What if this? What if that?
It’s her thing, and I find it equal parts weird and cool. She’s so
different from all the girls at my school—even the girls at the
local university aren’t like her. Her wild hair was the first
thing I noticed when I met her, and now it’s become the
biggest problem in my Tuesday afternoon.
“Did we really skip class to talk about babies coming out of
their mums’ bodies with rocker hair?” I ask.
I open my eyes and roll onto my stomach to get a good look
at her. She has so many freckles. I want to connect them with
my fingertips and watch her eyes flutter closed in delight.
“No, I suppose not.” She giggles, and I follow her eyes to
the shadow approaching us. Ken sits down on the grass, and I
watch his eyes change from the moon to the sun as he studies
Trish’s face.
She smiles back at him, and Ken looks like he’s won the
lottery as he makes his way through the tall grass. I can’t tell if
she notices the way he looks at her. I’ve always noticed it—
and gotten used to pretending it doesn’t burn like acid through
my veins.
It’s common knowledge that of the two of us, he’s the better
man.
The sun is becoming too hot on my skin, and I stand,
shading my eyes with one hand. “I’m going to head out—I
have a date,” I say, and wipe my hands on my jean shorts.
Seeing their brown hue against the faded denim, I again
marvel how I’ve gotten quite the tan over the summer. Trish
mentions it almost daily. It must be from hanging out with her
so much.
Trish rolls her eyes and mouths something rather dirty to
both of us. Ken flushes just a little in the apples that are his
cheeks. His hair is growing long, looking ratty where it starts
to cover the back of his neck. There are dark bags under his
brown eyes from studying like a madman to prepare for his
entry exam into law school. Ken Scott is the most stable
student in Trish’s and my entire level; I have no idea how
someone like him ended up becoming our best friend. I
suppose Trish is a tad more stable than me. She’s firecrackers
and sunshine, but she’s also cool stone and steady waves. She
knows when to cut loose and when to be cautious and smart.
I’ve always loved that about her.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Ken says when I stand.
He comes a little closer to me; he’s taller than me by a few
inches. I nod, waiting for him to begin, but then seeing his
eyes focus on Trish, I catch on that he means alone and gesture
for him to lead the way. I follow him for about twenty meters,
at which point he stops next to an old metal bench. He sits first
and pats the empty space next to him.
He’s acting so serious—should I be worried? A young
couple walks past us, their hands linked together. Ken waits
for them to pass and my worry to rise before he finally speaks.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says. His
brows draw down, making him look much older than
seventeen.
“You’re not dying, are ye?” I push my shoulder into his,
and he relaxes a fraction.
He shakes his head. “No, no. It’s not that.” The noise he
makes is half laugh, half nervous titter.
What could he be so tense about? I wish he would just spit
it out.
“I-want-to-ask-Trish-to-be-mine,” he breathes out in one
long syllable.
Now I wish I could cram the words back inside his anxious
face, or that maybe he was dying. Okay, not something so
harsh, but something else. Anything else.
“To be your . . . what?” I struggle to keep my composure.
Ken’s eyes roll. “My girl, you twat.”
I want to tell him that he can’t have her, that it isn’t fair that
he’s the one who gets to ask her first. Give her a choice, I want
to tell him. She was always supposed to be mine, I want to
argue.
“Why are you telling me?” comes out instead.
My friend sits back against the bench and rests his palms
against his knees. “I just wanted to make sure . . .” he starts,
but the words are trapped behind his tongue.
And in that sudden silence I realize I’m caught between
being honest with my best friend and making him happy. It’s
impossible to do both.
I break into a smile, choosing his happiness over mine.
I’m not surprised when Trish accepts Ken’s offer, but I
would be lying if I said I didn’t hold on to some fraction of
hope that maybe she loves me, too. She loves stability more,
though, and so for the next year, I avoid every thought of Trish
being anything other than my best mate’s girlfriend.
Sometimes when they kiss in front of me, I catch her looking
at me for approval after they’ve pulled away from each other. I
keep that little morsel of hope alive, and it makes my year a
very rough one. When I fuck, I think of her. When I kiss, I
taste her.
I have to stop.
It’s an easy task at first. I stop comparing all the girls I date
to her. She stops slipping her hand through mine when we’re
talking. I begin to see the world differently now that I no
longer think of her as a tether to home. She’s no longer
keeping me here. Nothing is.
I’ve outgrown Hampstead. I know it. Trish knows it. Even
the local bakery has grown suspicious of my recent behavior
and the fact that my weekly trips to buy sweets there have
tapered down to nothing.
Suddenly I crave more of this world than living in this
town. I want to move to the States, away from the daft minds
of my mates who have no plans for their futures—and even
farther away from my two favorite lovers. I’ve quickly
become a fifth wheel with Ken and Max and their ladies. I
want to learn more about the world, about people in general,
and I can’t settle down here. Everyone around me has their
roots firmly planted here already. They’ve opened up bank
accounts and chosen a local university. I can already foresee
their ambition short-circuiting when they take their first job
doing what one of their parents did. They settle into these roles
and never audition for any others.
Trish has become one of them. She’s gone from being an
excited liberal arts major to barely attending her classes. She
and Ken moved into a small apartment across from the campus
of his school to save travel time. He’s a mess lately, working
so much. Every time I see him he’s behind a stack of
textbooks. Trish is less of a lover and more of a mother to him
now. She sets his alarm clock every evening. She makes sure
his clothes are clean and laid out on their bed in the morning.
She makes his coffee, his breakfast, packs his lunch. She waits
for him to get home, she feeds him a hot meal and is ignored
in favor of his books, and then the next day the same tedious
cycle repeats all over again. She’s no longer the vibrant risk-
taking flower child she once was. She’s the overworked and
underslept waiting woman. Because of her efforts, their
apartment is as clean as it is small, and she’s managed to
charm up the place. Trish has even taken in a stray kitten and
named it Gat after one of my favorite characters. I suspect Ken
doesn’t care for the creature, or the name she chose.
Her what-if games that I enjoyed on the hill become less
and less frequent every day, and more and more of what she
expresses can be called free-floating anxiety. She no longer
indulges in flights of fancy that entertain us both; instead she
worries about minute things, and I’m no longer a playmate in a
grassy field, but someone who has to reassure her, even though
I’m not the first in her heart.
Even through this, though, she still keeps her humor—and I
pray to God each night that she won’t lose it completely. The
more often I stop by, the brighter she seems to burn. I make it
a point to stop by weekly, then twice a week, as she asks me to
do. The hours Ken’s gone become longer, leaving their home
emptier. She shares with me her worries and whispers her
darkest questions into the dark room. I pretend to have all the
answers, and like a good friend to them both, I encourage her
to share her fears with her lover.
Quickly, I regret this decision. One night, a rare night when
Ken is at home and not studying, we’re all sitting around the
kitchen table, each of us with a glass of whiskey in hand.
During a lull in the awkward conversation in which we try to
catch up with one another’s recent life, Ken refills his glass.
He doesn’t bother to look for ice—he never does anymore.
Trish sighs loudly and gets up, only to go into their small
living room and sit on the arm of their couch. “What if the
whole world exists in a glass case inside some alien child’s
bedroom, like an ant farm of sorts?” I swear Trish’s accent
grows deeper each time she drinks.
“What a fucked-up question,” I snort, the whiskey burning
in my nostrils. Ken doesn’t break a smile; his lips don’t even
make the slightest upturn. I get up to stretch, to not be the only
one sitting at the table with him.
“Fine. What if the world ends tomorrow, proving that we all
are wasting our time working so hard and sleeping so little?”
Her eyes are light in the dim room. Gat climbs up onto her lap,
and she runs her fingers through his burnt-orange fur.
I begin to think through her question. If I died tomorrow,
would she know how much I ache for her? How much I love
her?
Ken finally laughs, but his comment is not what I expected.
“Working hard? As if you know anything about that.”
He’s smiling now, head tilting back in a sinister way as he
leans over the table. Gat seems to sense the threat as Trish
takes in a deep breath. I’ve never seen them fight, but if they
do, my money is on Trish. The cat jumps down and prances
off into the hallway. I should follow it—I should leave and
stay out of this—but I can’t.
Ken lifts his glass to his lips and gulps down the remainder
of the brown liquor in his tumbler.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t possibly have heard that correctly,”
Trish says through her teeth.
I ignore the way my hands shake under the table when he
stands up and starts raising his voice. I ignore my instinct to
tackle him and shake him until he wakes up from this
sleepwalking state he’s been slipping into lately, a state in
which he starts yelling at her, calling her terrible names, and
saying terrible things about her. I ignore the way my stomach
feels like surging lava when she slaps him across the face. I
ignore the way her tears burn through the flesh of my arms as I
hold her on the couch, after he’s been gone for thirty minutes,
drunk as a fish and out driving somewhere even though he’s
incapable of walking straight—but after the way he stormed
out of here, not bothering to turn around when I called after
him, I’m glad he’s gone.
“What if he doesn’t come back?” Trish’s lips tremble as she
finally starts to calm down, her head on my chest.
“And what if he does?” I ask her.
She sighs and squeezes my hand between hers. I look down
at her face, and my heart aches. She’s so beautiful, even when
her lips are red from chewing at them, and her eyes are
swollen from wetting them with her tears. She’s calm now, her
eyes stuck on my lips.
“What if I’m losing sight of the man I thought I knew?”
Trish’s question comes out quickly, her next even more so.
“What if I would rather have attention than a stable life?”
She seems frantic now, pushing her fingers through her
thick brown hair. She faces me, squaring off her shoulders.
“What if I confused friendship with love? Do you think Ken
and I did that?”
She looks down at my hands, which are reaching for her
without my having realized it.
“I don’t know,” I say, pulling my hands back to run them
over my hair and then sitting back against the couch. I
confused friendship and love when I chose friendship over my
feelings for Trish, but now my best friends have made a life
together. The problem they face isn’t a lack of love, it’s a lack
of time. That’s all. He loves her, and if she loved me rather
than him, she would have told me long before now.
She moves onto her knees on the couch, just to reach me.
Her hand moves to my hair, and she pushes it back for me.
“What if it’s not that simple?”
Can she sense how I feel for her? Is that why she’s moving
closer and closer with every rise of her chest?
When her face is only an inch from mine, she looks me
straight in the eyes. “Do you ever think of me?”
The whiskey on both of our breaths hangs in the air even
though both of us had far less to drink than Ken. There I go
mentioning Ken again; it’s like his presence is everywhere in
this apartment. He marked Trish’s body as his; he lies with her
every night. He gets to feel her breasts under his palms. He
gets to touch the pale skin on her stomach, her thighs. Her lips
touch him. He tastes her . . .
And I never will.
“I shouldn’t . . .” I say.
But I would be a fool not to think of her slender hips and
perfect skin. I watched her grow up, and fantasizing about her
was a daily, constant thing.
Trish is pleased by my answer. I can see it in the way she
licks her lips while staring at mine, the way her mouth is
slightly open. Does this mean she’s been having . . . well,
having thoughts about me? Why else would she ask?
When her eyes flicker to my eyes, then back to my mouth,
common sense and self-restraint are no longer in my
vocabulary, and I wrap my hand in her hair and pull her mouth
to mine. I take her mouth slowly, claiming every bit of her
tongue, her lips. She’s mine in this moment, and we’re both
taking full advantage of it. Quickly she grows eager,
aggressive in her movements, and shoves me to the floor and
climbs onto my torso. The look on her face is one of deep
relief as she slips her tongue back inside my mouth. I groan,
lifting my hips to meet hers. I’m hard for her, and I want her to
feel it.
Her fingers lace through mine, and she guides them
between her legs. She’s excited to show me how wet she is;
she’s ready to confess her need for me. I’m ready, too, and I
show her when I grind my hips up into her; she curses,
begging me to take this to the next level.
Can we—
“What if we get caught?” she asks, pulling back only a
fraction.
I don’t know if I care as much as I always thought I would.
“What if we don’t?” she then says to herself and silences
any further questions either of us may have with her tongue
between my lips and her hands unbuttoning my trousers. Her
hand slips inside, gripping me, and I melt into her. My fears of
being caught by an angry Ken, my knowledge that she is not
mine for the taking, the anxiety I’m filled with when I think of
leaving here—all of it melts. The only thing I can think of is
being buried in her, needing every part of her.
I tug at my trousers, pulling them down along with my
boxers. Her mouth is tasting me, tongue probing, licking the
swollen vein down my center. She closes her eyes, relishing
the way her wet mouth takes me all the way into her throat,
then back up. She’s becoming less cautious as she devours me,
quickly yet efficiently. She’s pleasing me as if she won’t ever
taste me again. It’s true that she won’t.
“Lie down, facing up, legs spread wide. I want to look at
you,” I tell her. I have to look at her while I finally have what I
want beneath me. Trish moves toward the center of the carpet,
dragging the dark cherry coffee table to one side. She quickly
undresses, and I don’t mind, because watching her is
something else. Her long cotton dress is falling to her feet, and
her arms are already lifting the straps of her simple white bra.
My eyes follow the curve of her body; her nipples are tight
little pebbles as my gaze passes them. Her stomach is tight; the
muscles on her torso curve down to her hipbones.
I’m throbbing and heavy in my hand when I reach her.
She’s lying down on the carpet, her legs spread wide for me.
My cock hangs heavy between us, and I can smell the wetness
of her pussy. I swear I can feel how tight she’ll be. I inch
closer, pushing against her until I slowly fill her. She feels like
a damn glove as I thrust in and out of her. I don’t think I can
stop this, ever. I already need more of her. Trish’s eyes have
rolled up into her head, and I know I’m not going to be able to
hold on much longer. I rock my hips, and she wraps her thighs
around my waist. She’s coming, she says, “so hard,” she
whimpers, clawing into my arms as I fuck harder.
I spill into her, wishing this wasn’t the first and only time
I’ll be able to enjoy her body in this way. She’s breathing hard
into my shoulder, and I’m kissing the wet marks on her neck
from my previous licks.
Minutes later, we’ve returned to reality with a crash of sore
arms and legs, of sweat and exhausted breaths. Trish is sitting
on the floor, legs crossed, and I’m on the couch, keeping as
much distance between us as possible.
“What if we can’t stop?” she says, looking at me, then
toward the kitchen table.
I’m not sure what to do. Not sure what I want, what she
wants. Not sure what’s possible. “We have to,” I say dumbly.
“I’m leaving next month.”
Even though she’s heard me say this—even though she
helped me book my flight—she turns her head to me suddenly,
looking as if she’s hearing the news for the first time.
Then, without a word, she nods her head, both of us feeling
a storm of guilt and relief and loss for something we truly
never had.
The wondrous present . . .
Ken was my friend—my closest friend, I would say—and I
was obsessively mad about his wife. I loved the crazy woman
and the fire that burned along with her presence. She was
challenging and brilliant—my weakness. It was unacceptable
what we were doing, and she knew that. She knew it, but
neither of us could help it. We were stuck, victims of bad
timing and worse choices. It wasn’t our fault, I would
convince myself each time I collapsed, spent and panting, onto
her naked body. We simply couldn’t help it; it wasn’t our fault.
It was the universe, it was the circumstances of our situation.
I was raised that way. I was taught as a young boy that
nothing was my fault. My dad was always right, even when he
wasn’t, and he taught his eldest son to think the same way. I
was a spoiled child, but not by money. During the times I got
to spend with my father, I was taught his arrogance. My father
never owned up to any of his mistakes; he never had to. I
learned that in life there was always someone else to blame. I
tried to be a different father than he was, a better one.
Kimberly says I’m doing a great job at that. She praises me
much more than I deserve, but I’ll take it. She can dish it out,
too—her mouth is worse than my university mates’ after a
twelve-pack of cheap piss-water beer.
“Put Karina to bed and I’ll be waiting for you.” Kimberly
kisses me on the cheek and gently slaps my bum, winking and
grinning as she prances into our bedroom.
I love that woman.
Karina makes a little burping sound in her sleep, and I
gently rub at her back. One of her tiny hands rises up and
grasps mine.
I still can’t believe I’m a dad again. I’m old now. Patches of
gray hair keep popping up here and there.
After Rose passed and it was just Smith and me, I never
expected to have another child. Or to discover that I had
already had another child. Still less than that, particularly
given the way things started, I never expected to have a
twenty-one-year-old son in my life as a friend and man.
Hardin went from being my biggest regret to my greatest joy. I
used to fear for his future, so much so that I hired him at Vance
just to make sure he had a job.
What I didn’t expect was for him to turn out to be a
goddamn genius. He was struggling so hard during his teens
that I thought he was going to ruin or end his life before it
really ever began. He was so pissed off all the time, and the
little shit that he was gave his poor mum hell.
I watched Hardin go from being a troubled and lonely
young boy to a bestselling author and advocate for troubled
youth. He’s become everything I could have dreamed for him
to be. Smith looks up to Hardin in every way, with the glaring
exception of his tattoos, which they both love to argue over.
Smith finds them tacky, and Hardin loves to show Smith each
new tattoo he manages to somehow squeeze onto his already
covered skin.
I look down at the sleeping beauty in her crib and switch on
the night-light on the dresser while I silently promise this
sweet, precious girl that I’ll be the best father I can possibly
be.
Smith
As a young man, he didn’t know how to be a role model. He
had absolutely no fucking idea why anyone would want to be
like him, but the little boy did. The little dimpled boy followed
him around every time he visited, and as the boy grew, so did
he. The boy would end up being one of his closest friends, and
by the time the boy was as tall as him, he was truly his brother.
Hardin is coming over again today, and I’m more excited than
usual because he hasn’t been here in a few months. I thought
maybe he wasn’t going to come back. When he moved, he
promised he would make sure to visit every once in a while, as
much as he could, he said. I like that he’s kept his promise so
far.
These past few days, my dad keeps making me do stuff to
distract me, things like my math homework, unloading the
dishwasher, and taking Kim’s dog out to pee. I like taking the
dog, Teddy—he’s nice and really small, so I can carry him
when he gets too lazy to walk. But still, I’m really distracted
that Hardin’s coming.
Today was long: school, piano lessons, and now homework
time. Kimberly is singing in the other room. Man, she’s so
loud. Sometimes I think she thinks she sounds good, so I
won’t tell her that she doesn’t. Her high-pitched notes
sometimes scare her little dog.
Each time Hardin comes to my house, he brings me a book.
I always read them, and then we talk or text a little about them
later. Sometimes he gives me hard books that have language I
can’t understand, or books that my dad takes away because he
thinks I’m too young to read them. With those, he always
swats Hardin on the head with the book before putting it away
for me for “someday.”
I think it’s funny when Hardin cusses at my dad. Which
usually accompanies those thumps to the head.
Tessa told me once that Hardin used to teach me curse
words when I was younger, but I don’t remember that. Tessa
always tells me things about when I was younger. She talks
more than anyone else, except Kim—no one talks as much, or
as loudly, as Kim. Tessa is pretty close, though.
As I pass the front door, the alarm system beeps a few
times, and I look over to see a small screen pop up on the
living room TV. Hardin’s face, with his big nose, covers the
little box screen. His neck is there now, his tattoos making it
look like he scribbled on the screen. I laugh and press the
speaker button.
“Did your dad change the code again?” Hardin asks, which
is funny because his lips move faster on the screen than his
voice goes through the speaker.
His voice is the same as my dad’s almost, but slower. My
grandma and grandpa talk like them, too, because they all
were born in England. My dad says I’ve been there four times,
but the only time I remember is last year, when we went to his
friend’s wedding.
My dad got hurt on that trip—I remember his leg looked
like cow meat that someone ground up to cook and eat. It
reminded me of The Walking Dead (but don’t tell him I found
a way to see some episodes). I helped Kim change his
bandages, and they were so gross but they left some cool scars.
Kim had to push him around in a wheelchair for a month; she
said she did it because she loves him. If I was ever hurt and
needed to be wheeled around, I’m sure she would push me,
too.
I buzz Hardin in and walk to the kitchen as I hear his shoes
stomping through the living room.
“Smith, honey,” Kim says when she comes into the kitchen.
“Do you want something to eat?” Today her hair is curled up
around her face; she kind of looks like her dog, Teddy, whose
hair is everywhere. I shake my head, and Hardin joins us.
“I do,” Hardin says. “I’m hungry,”
“I didn’t ask you, I asked Smith,” she says, and wipes her
hands on her blue dress.
Hardin laughs, a loud noise. Shaking his head, he looks at
me. “Do you see how she treats me? She’s terrible.”
I laugh, too. Kim says Hardin picks on her. They’re both
too funny.
Kim opens the fridge and takes out a pitcher of juice.
“You’re one to talk.”
Hardin laughs again and sits down on the chair next to me.
In his hands are two small packages wrapped in white paper.
No bows, no writing on the outside. I know they’re mine, but I
don’t want to be impolite.
I stare at them and try to read the title of the books through
the paper, but it’s no use. I turn to the window and pretend to
be looking outside so I don’t seem too rude.
Hardin sets the packages down on the counter, and Kim
hands me a cup of juice, then goes to the cabinet for some
chips. My dad always tells Kim not to let me eat a lot of them,
but she doesn’t listen. My dad says she never does.
I grab for the bag, but Hardin swipes it and holds it over my
head for a minute.
He smiles down at me. “Thought you weren’t hungry.”
The hole under his lip looks like someone drew a dot on his
face. He used to have a piercing, I remember. I always tell him
to put it back. He tells me to stop listening to Tessa.
“I am now.” I jump up and grab the bag back from him, and
it makes a loud crinkling sound in my hands. Hardin shrugs,
and he looks happy. He thinks I’m funny. He tells me all the
time.
Once I’ve unclipped the bag, he takes a handful of chips
and shoves them into his big mouth. “Are you going to open
your gifts before you shove your face full of crisps?” Crumbs
of food fly out while he talks, and Kim makes a grossed-out
face.
“Christian!” she yells for my dad.
I laugh, and Hardin pretends to be scared.
I scoot the bag of chips away. “Well, since you asked, I
want to open the books first.”
Hardin picks up both packages and holds them to his chest.
“Books, huh? What makes you think I brought you books?”
“Because you always do.” I reach for the thickest one, and
he slides it across the counter.
“Touché,” he says—whatever that means.
Forgetting my manners a little bit, I tear at the paper until a
colorful cover is revealed. It shows a boy with a wizard hat.
“The Chamber of Secrets,” I read the title out loud. I’m
happy about this book. I just finished the one before it.
When I look up at Hardin, he pushes his hair away from his
face. I agree with my dad—he should get a haircut. His hair is
as long as Kim’s now.
He points to the book. “It’s from Landon again. He likes
that tiny wizard.”
My dad comes into the kitchen and cusses at Hardin.
Hardin slaps him on the shoulder, and Kim calls them
children. I act more like a grown-up than they do, she says.
“Well, that’s nice of him,” my dad says. “Smith, make sure
you say thank you to Tessa’s friend.”
Hardin scoffs. “Tessa’s friend? He’s my brother.” He smiles
and scratches the tattoos on his arms. I want tattoos like him
when I’m older. My dad says no, but Kim told me that once
I’m out of the house he really can’t stop me.
I can get whatever I want when I’m a grown-up.
“He’s not your real brother,” I tell him. My dad explained
that Landon isn’t his real brother.
Hardin’s smile goes away, and he nods. “Sure. But he’s my
brother, still.”
While I ponder what he means by this, Kim asks my dad if
he’s hungry, and Hardin looks around the kitchen. He seems a
little sad for some reason all of a sudden.
“Your dad is my dad. So is Landon’s mom your mom?” I
ask.
Hardin shakes his head no, and my dad kisses Kim on her
shoulder, which, of course, makes her smile. He always seems
to make her smile.
“Sometimes people can be family without sharing parents.”
Hardin stares at my face like I’m supposed to say
something back. Really, I don’t know what he means, but if he
wants Landon to be his brother, too, that’s okay with me.
Landon is really nice. He lives in New York, so I don’t see him
very much. Tessa is out there, too. My dad has an office there;
it’s shiny and smells like a hospital.
Hardin touches my hand, and I look at him. “Just because
Landon is my brother doesn’t mean you aren’t, too. You know
that, don’t ya?”
I’m embarrassed a little because Kim is making a face like
she’s going to cry and my dad looks scared.
“I know,” I tell him, and look at the Harry Potter book.
“Landon can be my brother, too.”
Hardin looks happy when he smiles, and I look up to see
Kim is making that face again.
“Yeah, he sure can.” He looks at Kim and says, “Stop it
already, lady! You would think someone died, with the way
she’s acting.”
My dad calls Hardin a bad name, and Kim jumps out of the
way when Hardin throws an apple at his chest. He looks like a
baseball player, the way he snags it out of the air . . . and takes
a bite, which makes us all laugh.
Hardin slides the other book across the counter, and I grab
it. The paper is harder to tear on this one, and I get a small cut
from one of the corners. I wince a little but hope nobody else
notices. If I tell anyone, Kim will make me wash it right now
and put a bandage on, but I really just want to see what this
one is.
As the last piece is torn away, I see a big cross on the cover
of the book.
“Dra-cula?” I sound out the word. I’ve heard of this before.
It’s a vampire book.
My dad moves away from Kim and walks around the
counter. “Dracula? You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s not even
ten!” He holds his hand out for the book.
I look at Kim for help. She pushes her lips together and
gives Hardin a mean look.
“Usually I’ll take your side,” she says. Hardin calls her a
liar, but she keeps talking. “But Dracula? Out of all things?
Harry Potter and Dracula—what a mix.”
My dad nods and stands still like he’s some big statue, the
way he always does when he wants to show he’s right.
After a moment, Hardin rolls his eyes and tugs at the collar
of his black T-shirt. “Sorry, man, your dad’s being a tool. You
can read the Chamber book now, and when I come next time,
I’ll bring you another—”
“One with no violence,” my dad interrupts.
Hardin sighs. “Sure, sure. No violence,” he says in a funny
voice.
I laugh again. My dad smiles, and Kim is hugging him.
I wonder how long it will be until I see Hardin again.
“When will you be back?” I ask.
Hardin scratches his chin. “Hmm, I’m not sure. A month,
maybe?”
A month feels really long, but I suppose the Harry Potter
book is pretty long . . .
Hardin leans a little closer to me. “I will come back,
though, and bring a book every time,” he whispers.
“Like my dad did for you?” I ask him, and his eyes look at
my dad. Our dad. Hardin doesn’t call him dad, though. He
calls him Vance, which is our last name. Not Hardin’s; his is
Scott. He got it from his fake dad.
When I tried to call my dad Vance, he told me I would be
grounded until I turned thirty if I said it again. I don’t want to
be grounded that long, so I call him Dad.
Hardin shifts his body in the chair. “Yeah, like he did for
me.”
He seems sad again, but I can’t tell for sure. Hardin is sad,
then mad, then laughing, all the time.
He’s really weird.
“How did you know about that, Smith?” my dad asks.
Hardin’s face turns red, and he mouths, Don’t tell him.
I lift my hands up and reach for more chips. “Hardin says
not to tell.”
Hardin slaps his forehead, then mine, and Kim smiles at us
both. She smiles so much, all the time. I like when she laughs,
too; it sounds nice.
My dad walks closer to us.
“Well, Hardin doesn’t make the rules, remember?” My dad
puts his hands on my shoulders and rubs. It feels good when
he does that. “Tell me what Hardin said, and I’ll take you for
ice cream and buy you a new track for your train.”
My train is my favorite toy. My dad always buys me new
tracks to add, and last month Kim helped me move the whole
thing to an empty room, so now I have a whole room just for
my trains.
Hardin looks like he’s sweating. But he doesn’t look mad,
so I decide I can tell my dad.
Plus, there’s the new train stuff I’ll get.
“He said you brought him books like this.” I hold up the
heavy books. “And that it made him happy when he was a
little boy like me.”
Hardin turns his head, and my dad looks surprised by what
I said. His eyes are shiny now, and he’s staring at me.
“Did he, now?” My dad’s voice is weird.
“Yeah, he did,” I say, nodding.
Hardin stays quiet, but he looks back at me. His face is red,
and his eyes are shiny like my dad’s. I look at Kim, and she
has her hand over her mouth.
“Did I say something bad?” I ask them.
My dad and Hardin say “No, no” at the same time.
“You didn’t say anything wrong, little man.” My dad puts
one of his hands on my back and one on Hardin’s.
Usually when he tries this, Hardin moves away.
Today he doesn’t.
Hessa
New York is having one of its hottest summers when Tessa
has Auden. It’s Tuesday, release day for my newest novel, and
Tessa and I are lying on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling fan
we installed just last week.
We keep redecorating our small apartment, for some insane
reason. We know we won’t end up staying here, yet we keep
putting money into this place. Our very impulsive decision to
completely redo our son’s nursery when he was only eight
weeks old has ended up being much more of a task than we
expected. The renovation has Auden’s crib in our room,
centered at the end of our bed. I find it stuffy and cramped,
like we’re refugees in a tiny boat, ones who decided to give
their five-year-old, our daughter, Emery, the main cabin while
we took the escape raft.
Tess loves it.
Some nights she falls asleep with her feet facing the
headboard and holds his hand while they both sleep. Half of
the time I wake her to right her position by nibbling at her ear,
rubbing her tense shoulders. The other half, I wrap my arms
around her legs and just sleep that way. I have to touch her in
some way. She always ends up next to me by the morning,
nibbling on my ear or rubbing my lower back.
I already feel like an old man; my back aches from my
shitty excuse for a writing posture: sitting slouched on the
couch or cross-legged on the floor with my laptop on my
actual lap.
Tessa points up to the fan. “It’s crooked. We should
repaint.”
Currently, the nursery is painted a soft, Easter yellow to go
along with a gender-neutral room. We wanted to keep the
space light, having learned firsthand what a mistake—and
subsequent pain—it was to assume one’s daughter wanted
cotton-candy-pink walls. Those we painted before she was
born. But as soon as Emery learned that she didn’t really like
pink, it took us three afternoons and three coats of green to
cover that damn color. We learned our lesson from that, and
Tessa learned a few new swear words from me. So, insisting
that a muted pastel yellow was all the rage, we went with that;
we all know how I just have to keep up with the Joneses and
please my lady. That, or the fact that it’ll be a really easy color
to paint over when Auden starts expressing preferences.
The nursery contains several different shades of yellow. I
didn’t realize there were shades of yellow, or that they could
clash so much. Each has come from Tessa’s stops at IKEA and
Pottery Barn, which I swear occur at least three times a week.
She finds all sorts of things she loves and hugs them to her
chest, exclaiming things like “This decorative pillow will look
soooo good!” and “This toy is so cute I could eat it up!” And
then she tucks said item under a sofa cushion or into a random
cubbyhole in the nursery that she hadn’t filled yet.
The room has ended up being a big ball of undulating
sunshine that Tessa can’t be in for longer than ten minutes
without getting nauseous. She made me promise her that I
would never again let her decorate a room—especially not a
nursery. And now she wants me to repaint it all again.
The things I do for this woman.
And I’d do more. I do all I can.
One thing I could do for her is, by some magical means,
make it so she can leave more of her work at her office. She’s
been so tired lately, and it’s driving me fucking mad. She
won’t slow down, but I know how much she loves her job. Her
career is her third baby. She works so incredibly hard to
produce the most beautiful weddings imaginable. She’s new,
brand-new in the industry, but she’s fucking amazing at this.
Tessa was terrified when she’d brought up her potential
career change with me. She was pacing back and forth in our
small kitchen. I had just loaded the dishwasher and “finished”
painting Emery’s nails. I thought I was doing fine with the role
reversal, but Emery made Tess fire me when I claimed that the
mess I was making on her tiny hands was okay, that the red
polish just looked like she had killed something.
I hadn’t realized any child of mine could have such a weak
stomach and sour sense of humor.
“So, I want to turn down the promotion at Vance and go
back to school,” Tessa said casually from the kitchen table. Or
what I took as casually. Emery sat quietly, having no idea of
the impact such adult choices have on people’s lives.
“Really?” I rubbed a towel over a wet plate to dry it.
Tessa tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, and her eyes
went wide. “I’ve been thinking about it so much lately, and if I
don’t do it, I’ll go insane.”
She didn’t have to explain that to me. Everyone needs a
change sometimes. Even I got bored between books, and Tessa
came up with the idea of me substitute teaching two or three
days a month at Valsar, Emery’s elementary school, where
Landon happens to work. Granted, I quit after three days, but
it was an entertaining experiment and earned me brownie
points with my girl.
As always, I encouraged Tessa to do what she wanted. I
wanted her to be happy, and it’s not like we needed the money.
I’d just signed my next contract with Vance, my third in the
last two years. The money from After went straight into an
account for the kids. Well, after I bought Tessa a “please
forgive me for being a fucking idiot repeatedly” gift. It was
simple: a charm bracelet made of metal to replace her old one,
which was made of yarn. Over the years, the yarn tore apart,
but Tessa kept the charms and she was overly excited that the
new bracelet had the option of adding, changing the charms as
often as you like. It seems like a pretty stupid concept to me,
but she loved it.
The next morning, Tessa sat down with Vance and politely
declined the promotion, then cried for an hour when she got
home. I knew she would feel guilty for leaving her job, but she
won’t be upset long. I knew Kim and Vance would reassure
her every day until her two weeks’ notice was over.
When she got her first wedding-planning client, she
squealed and I watched her come alive in a way I hadn’t seen
before. I still didn’t know why this insane woman stayed with
me after all the stupid shit I did when I was young, but I was
pretty fucking happy that she did, if only to see her as excited
as she now was.
Of course, Tessa nailed that first wedding and got
recommendation after recommendation, enabling her to hire
two employees after a only a few short months. I was proud of
her, and she was proud of herself. Looking back, it seemed
silly that she had ever worried about failing. Tessa’s one of
those annoying people who touch a pile of shit and it turns to
gold.
That’s pretty much what happened with me.
She worked and worked, and she was overworking herself
again after we had Auden.
I nudge her. “You need a night off. You’re practically
falling asleep on the floor while staring at the ceiling fan.”
A playful elbow is pressed into my hip. “I’m fine. You’re
the one who barely sleeps at night,” she whispers into my
neck.
I know she’s right, but I have deadlines and no time to
award myself with sleep. Besides, when I’m stuck on a
passage I’m writing, it stays glued to me and I can’t sleep.
Still, I hate the idea of her noticing my lack of sleep, since
she’ll always worry about me much more than I will myself.
“I mean it. You need to take a break. You’re still recovering
from that little monster tearing you open,” I say, and slide my
hand up her shirt and rub her stomach.
She flinches. “Don’t,” she groans, trying to push my hands
off her soft skin. I hate how insecure she’s become since
having our son. Auden’s birth did more damage to her body
than Emery’s, but to me she’s sexier than ever. I hate that the
touch of my hand makes her uncomfortable like this.
“Baby . . .” I move my hand away, but only so I can lean up
on my elbow. Looking down at her, I shake my head.
Pressing two warm fingers to my lips, she smiles. “I know
this part of the novel. This is where you give me the heroic
husbandly speech about how I earned my scars and I’m much
more beautiful for having done so,” Tessa says, giving the
words at the end a dramatic flare.
She’s always been such a smartass.
“No, Tess, this is where I show you how I feel when I look
at you.”
I move my hand to her breast and squeeze just hard enough
to ignite her, letting her body warm up to me. I catch her moan
before she does, and she whimpers when I find her hard nipple
and pinch it beneath her clothing.
She’s done for. I know it; she knows it. She accepts it
openly, and I react as fast as I can.
My hands quickly find the leg of her shorts and slide under
the fabric there. Sure enough, there’s a damp spot at the front
of her panties. I love the feel of her wetness and crave the taste
of it on my tongue. I take my fingers away and lift them to my
lips. Tessa moans and pulls my index and middle fingers to her
mouth and sucks their tips.
Goddamn, this woman ruins me.
Her eyes are glued to mine as her teeth nip my fingertips. I
push my body against hers, letting her feel how hard my cock
is from her little tease-fest. I pull at the waistband of her cotton
shorts and push them down her thighs and to her feet. She
kicks them furiously when her panties get stuck there. She
wants it now, needs me now. I suck at the skin on her neck and
feel her hand grip my cock. She’s as frantic as I am as she
undresses me. By the time she climbs on top of me, she has me
down to my socks. Tessa’s insecurities seem to disappear as
she lowers her body down on mine and brings her wet lips to
my hard skin. Her warm tongue swipes across the tip, earning
her a drop of me on her tongue. She keeps her mouth moving
at a steady pace, taking more and more of me as I moan her
name.
I lay my head back against the floor and reach up to grip
her chest. Her tits are still inflated from the breastfeeding—
one body change she loves, and I’m sure as hell not
complaining about having even more of her to play with.
“Fuck, I love your tits,” I say as she slides her mouth down
my length.
Tessa’s mouth draws harder on me, hugging me as I feel the
tension building up my back. Just as I weave my hands
through her hair, she pulls back, licking her lips while her eyes
stay on mine. She lifts herself up on her elbows and brings her
chest to my groin. I pant like a dog waiting for his owner to
pet him after a day alone in a cage. Tessa pushes her beautiful
tits together and slides my cock between them. With three of
her movements, I come on her skin. As I catch my breath,
Tessa’s tongue darts out between her lips and she gives me a
shy smile, her cheeks flushed from the way her body responds
to pleasing me.
She lifts herself to her feet, then, looking down at her chest,
says, “I’m going to need a shower.”
Still panting, I grab my black T-shirt from the floor and lift
it to her chest. She pushes her hand out, making a face at me,
and moves toward the door. Over the years she has become
less and less fond of me cleaning up any bodily fluids with my
T-shirts. It’s apparently inappropriate and that’s what towels
are for, she warns each time.
I follow her into the bathroom, ticking off in my mind all
the ways I’m going to repay her in the shower.
Her chest looks amazing pushed up against the glass. The
mirror on the wall there has to be one of the best things in this
apartment.
Hessa
Easter
Hardin, Auden is up.” Tessa’s voice breaks through my cloud
of sleep. “We need to wake Emery up and let them find their
Easter baskets.”
She shakes my shoulder, begging me to wake up.
“Hardin, come on.” Her voice is low, but excitement rings
through her barely contained whispers.
If this is how I’m woken up for the rest of my life, I’ll be a
lucky bastard.
I groan, barely opening my eyes as I pull her to my chest.
“What’s the ruckus?” I ask, pressing my lips against her
temple. Her hair sticks to my face, and I brush the strands
away. She’s topless, her soft breasts pressed against my side.
She sighs, wrapping a stubbly leg through mine. I flinch
away in jest, and she playfully nudges me. “The kids need to
find their baskets and I want to start breakfast, so you need to
get up.”
And like that, like she’s not totally turning me on, she
wiggles her body free of mine and rolls over to climb out of
bed.
“Come on, baby,” I complain, missing the warmness of her
body.
As she opens the dresser, I glance over at her naked chest.
A whine leaves my throat, and I wish I’d woken up earlier to
keep her in the bed with me. I would be inside of her right
now, buried deep inside her warm, wet . . .
A pillow smacks me in the face. “Get out of bed! We have a
busy day today, you know.”
Sighing, I roll out of our king-size bed and toss a shirt over
my head before she throws something else my way. She spent
months redecorating the place only a little bit ago; I’m sure
she doesn’t want to damage any of the precious decorations
she picked out with the insane decorator she convinced me we
needed. The guy was a loon, painting the living room a salmon
color, then repainting it a week later with a slightly less
nauseating shade.
“I know, darling. Baskets, bunnies, eggs, and shit.” I catch
my reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall and run my
fingers over my hair. Using the band on my wrist, I pull my
hair up and look over at a glaring Tessa. The corners of her
mouth are attempting to stay straight, but I can see the
struggle.
“Yes, and shit.” She laughs finally and reaches for her
hairbrush. “We have to be at Landon’s at two. Karen and Ken
have flown in, and I haven’t even made the potato salad we’re
supposed to bring.”
After finishing with her long hair, she goes to hand me the
brush with a smirk.
I shake my head. I don’t need to brush it; my fingers do the
trick.
“I’ll make the potatoes while you get ready,” I offer. “Now
let’s go watch the kids find their baskets.”
She makes a face, judging my ability to make the potatoes
for her an iffy proposition at best. I’m fully capable of this . . .
except maybe last Christmas, when I burned the chicken.
Tessa is dressed in white cotton pants and a navy-blue T-
shirt; her skin has a hint of a tan from spending time out on the
patio tending to her small garden. She loves our small yard
here in Brooklyn; it’s her favorite part of the new town house I
bought her to celebrate my newest book deal.
In the hallway she stops by Emery’s room. “Wake her up
and meet me in the living room.” She kisses my cheek and
yells for our son. I slap her ass as she walks away, and she
rolls her eyes at me—the usual.
When I go into Emery’s room, she’s lying sprawled out on
the bed, her long legs hanging over the edge of her small
Disney-themed bedspread.
“Em.” I gently shake her arm.
She stirs but keeps her eyes shut.
When I do it again, she whines “Nooo” and turns onto her
stomach and buries her face in the pillow.
Dramatic little one, she is.
“Baby, you have to get up. Auden is going to take all your
Easter candy if you don’t . . .”
And just like that she’s hopping out of bed, her blond hair a
wild mess. Her hair is wavy like mine and thick like her
mum’s.
“He better not!” she declares as she pushes her feet into her
slippers and bolts from the room.
When I catch up, she’s pulling open every cabinet in the
kitchen.
“Where is mine?” she shrieks.
Tessa laughs, and Auden messily unwraps a chocolate egg
with his chubby little fingers before shoving the entire thing
into his mouth. He chews for a moment, then opens his mouth
wide.
Tessa leans over to him and pulls a piece of aluminum
wrapping from his tongue, and he smiles, chocolate covering
his crooked teeth. He lost his front tooth last week, and it’s
absolutely fucking adorable. I give him shit about his lisp,
because that’s a perk of being a parent: I get to tease them
when I please. It’s a rite of passage.
“Mom!” Emery complains from the hallway closet. “Dad
hid mine—didn’t he? That’s why I can’t find it!”
I laugh at her dramatics. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
She’s a sweet girl, just full of sass and opinions at the
young age of eleven. It’s why she doesn’t have many friends.
Emery continues rummaging through the town house as
Auden devours half his basket of candy, tossing little strings of
fake grass onto the floor.
“There’s a drum in there, too,” I tell him. He nods, mouth
still full of candy, not seeming to be too interested in anything
that isn’t made of chocolate.
“Daddy.” Emery walks into the kitchen with empty hands.
“Can you please tell me where you hid my basket? This is too
hard. Harder than last year.” She stands next to where I sit on
the barstool and wraps her arms around my waist. She’s so tall
for her age, and she’s trying to play me for a fool.
“Pleeeeeeease,” she begs.
“You aren’t fooling me, my dear. I’ll give you a hint, but a
hug and a sweet voice won’t work to bribe me. You have to
work for things, remember?”
She purses her lips and hugs me tighter. “I know, Daddy,”
she says into my chest.
I smirk at this new tactic and look over to find Tessa
watching Emery with suspicious eyes.
“It’s somewhere you never, ever go. It’s where your clothes
are that you refuse to help us fold.” I rub my hand over her
back, and she unlatches her arms from my neck.
“The washer machine!” Auden shouts, and Emery squeals.
She rushes over to her brother and touches the top of his head.
He smiles, looking awfully like a little puppy as he gets
praised by his big sister.
Within a minute, Emery is running into the kitchen with her
basket. Tiny chocolate Easter eggs fall onto the floor. Ignoring
them, she continues to dig at the full basket. Tessa stands up to
help her clean up the mess Emery herself doesn’t seem
interested in cleaning at all.
Emery sits down on the floor. Her basket rests on her
crossed legs, and she’s scarfing down a handful of colorful
jelly beans. I turn toward Tessa and Auden. He’s in her arms
with his arms wrapped around her neck. In her arms he looks
almost as big as his mum. I have no fucking idea where the
time has gone or how I—a fucked-up rebellious little shit—
produced such empathetic and calm children.
I mean, Emery has had her share of tantrums, sure. Like
when she threw a plant into a wall. But that wasn’t hard to
deal with: I took her door off the hinges. I don’t fucking play
that spoiled-child anger bullshit. She doesn’t have anything to
be angry about at eleven, not the way I did. She has two
parents who love her and are always here.
Really, they are both great kids.
Tessa and I are always here for both of our kids. They’ve
never gone without a hug, kiss, and at least two mushy I love
yous before the end of each day. Emery gets some of the
trendy stuff that circulates as social currency among the
popular kids at school. I never want my kids to be like I was,
the kid with the holes in his shoes. I want them to know how it
feels to want things like toys and then teach them a way to
earn them, by doing simple things like hugs and kisses on the
cheek and encouragement, which are never going to be scarce
around here. We decided that the moment they were born. I
wasn’t going to be like my father, either one of them. I was
going to raise children who knew they were loved, never
having to guess or assume that they were alone in the world.
The world is too big to be alone in, especially for two little
Scotts.
I stopped the pattern of piss-poor dads right in its tracks
before I could ruin two little lives.
Within an hour, Emery is passed out, one leg sticking
straight up on the back of the couch and one arm dangling
over the side. Auden is on his favorite couch that, while
supposedly “miniature,” takes up too much space but that
Tessa brought home over my protestations anyway. The couch
came complete with a nice overpriced ottoman, which also
takes up too much space for a Brooklyn living room. I was
overruled in the furniture discussion, so here I am staring at
my six-year-old, who’s sprawled out in a candy coma with
traces of chocolate still smeared on his square little chin. He’s
got more of me than his mum in him.
“Look how sweet they are,” Tessa says from behind me.
When I face her, she looks exhausted; her eyes are cloudy and
her skin is slightly pale.
I touch my lips to her cheeks, hoping to kiss some of the
color back into them. She sighs, and I feel her hands rest on
my stomach.
“What do you plan on doing during this nap time?” I ask
her. She always manages to use every valuable minute of the
kids’ nap time—which has been getting shorter and shorter—
for productive things. She’s too busy, that woman, but she
doesn’t listen to shit I say, so there’s nothing to be done here.
I watch as she mentally checks items off her list. “Well,”
she says slowly, then begins spouting off things like “call Fee
about the cake” and “get Posey to double-check those
bouquets” and something else I don’t hear when I bring my
hand to the front of her loose pants. She eyes me carefully as I
tug at the drawstring and dip my fingers into her panties.
“Don’t distract me,” she complains, but pushes her body
toward me, making me apply more pressure.
“You’re working too much,” I tell her for the thirtieth time
this week. She rolls her eyes for the thirty-first.
She grabs my free wrist and lifts my hand to her chest.
“Says the man who doesn’t sleep for days when he has a
deadline.”
She’s open to being distracted by me today, a little different
than usual, but I’ll sure as hell take it. I palm her roughly and
watch as her tits push up to her neck and back down. She
whines, whimpering for more of me. I’ll give it to her.
Grabbing her hand, I lead her down the hallway. She walks
quickly, anxious to get to our room. The moment we step
through the doorway, Tessa slams the heavy thing, nearly
knocking loose a giant framed painting of the kids from the
wall. When she’d first proposed getting it done, I found it
creepy, but Tessa loved the idea of having an image of them
the size of a damn billboard in here. The only part of this I had
a say in was that it be placed on the opposite side of the room
from our bed. No way am I staring at an abstract neon-painted
version of my children while fucking my wife. No fucking
way.
“Come here,” I tell her, beckoning her to my lap. I’m sitting
on the edge of our king-size bed. We shared a bed with both of
our children sporadically over the last few months. Auden
went through a nightmare phase, one where I kept myself
awake at night wondering if this was something he had
inherited from me. Emery followed suit, being jealous of her
younger brother, and came asking in whispers for protection
from her “bad dreams,” which I knew wasn’t true. She was
wiping her eyes like she was six again and everything.
Both of them lay between us.
It was awesome, let me tell you.
“Hardin?” Tessa’s voice is soft, raspy, and her eyes are on
mine. “What are you thinking about?” she asks. Her fingers
trail up and down my stomach, her nails gently scratching at
my skin.
“The kids and when they used to sleep in our bed.” I shrug,
smiling at her.
“That’s awkward,” she says with a shake of her head. But a
smile peeps through her lip.
“It’s only awkward because it’s me who’s distracted instead
of you this time, my darling.”
I tease her hardened nipples, and she moans. I lift her shirt
over her head. It drops to the floor, and she shakes her hair
back, making her look wild, red cheeks and pink lips. Wild
blond hair and hungry eyes. I reach out, tracing my finger over
the lining of her black lace bra. This woman wears the sexiest
lace bras. I dip under the material and tug at her nipples. “Lie
down, baby,” I instruct. She drops her pants and panties,
kicking them to the floor, and lies back on the bed. She
reaches for a pillow and tucks it under her head. Her eyes tell
me exactly what she wants: she wants me to go down on her.
It’s her favorite lately.
She’s tired, worn down, and her feet hurt, so she simply
wants to be pampered. This will be reciprocated, of course—
my woman returns the favor, taking my cock down her throat
on mornings when the kids let us sleep past 7 a.m. Tessa lifts
her legs up, bends them, and opens her thighs wide directly in
front of me. I bite down on my lip, trying to squash a groan
before it falls from my lips.
She’s soaking, glistening under the light, and I have no self-
control when it comes to her. I nearly lunge forward, pressing
my open mouth against her soft, wet skin. My tongue moves in
a single harsh line down her, sucking gently as I go.
Her hips shift, pushing her body against me. I hook my
arms around her thighs and roughly pull her to the edge of the
bed. She yelps, an adorable little sound of surprise mixed with
her excitement. My hands are gripping her ass and my mouth
is devouring her as she moans my name mixed in with yes and
oh my and a thousand other dirty things.
I love her little exclamations of encouragement. They cause
me to make her legs shake, to make her hands clutch the
sheets. Now she’s gripping my hair, an entire handful. I
fucking love it.
“Har-din . . .” Her voice breaks, and I bring a finger to her
pussy, sliding it in, driving her mad. I circle her clit with my
tongue, humming and circling, humming and circling. I taste
her as she comes, the sweetest flavor.
I come up for air and lift myself up to lay my head on her
stomach as she catches her breath. She tugs at my hair,
dragging me up her body. I’m still hard, and lying on top of
her naked leaves little room for anything except sex in my list
of wants and needs. Tessa knows this, which is why she’s
lifting up off the bed again, rubbing herself against me.
“You want me to fuck you? You haven’t had enough?” I ask
her, pressing my hardness against her wetness.
“I’ll never have enough . . .” she whines, and I whimper as
she wraps her hand around my cock and guides it inside her. I
make one long drag inside her and watch in awe as her eyes
roll back in her head. Her tits are pressed up against my chest,
her thighs wrapped around my waist.
“More,” she begs, wanting me to move inside of her. I
oblige, thrusting quickly. One of her hands is in my hair, and
the other is digging into the skin of my back.
I won’t last long.
At all.
I feel her legs tightening around me, and I reach my high at
the same time, riding out my last few pumps as her body turns
to gel with mine. She keeps her eyes closed, and I collapse
next to her.
As my breathing slows, I glance over at Tessa. Her blue-
gray eyes are closed, her lips are parted, and she’s just as
beautiful as she was the day I met her.
I can barely remember the kid I was when I met her, but
every detail of our lives together since runs through me like a
song.
This stubborn woman still refuses to legally marry me, but
she’s my wife in every way that matters, and she’s the mother
of my beautiful children. We want to have at least one more,
when her work slows down.
I’m anxious about bringing another child into the world. I
get a little worried each time.
The responsibility to raise decent human beings weighs
heavily on me, but Tessa carries half of the weight and
reassures me that we are great parents. I’m not like my father
was. I’m my own man. Certainly, I’ve made my share of
mistakes. But I served my penance and came out forgiven. I’m
not a particularly religious man, but I know there has to be
something bigger than Tess and me at play here. My world
went from nothing to everything, and I feel pride in who I am
now. I see my own light in my children’s eyes, and I hear my
happiness in their laughter.
I’m proud of the difference I make in local teenagers’ lives
with my fund-raisers for the community center. I’ve met
thousands of people whose lives were affected by my words
on pages. I fought for so long to keep everything in, but once I
let go, my heart opened up. It would have been selfish for me
not to share my experiences, not to help teens who suffer from
addiction and mental-health disorders. Through the years, I
learned not to focus on the past, but only look toward the
future. I’m aware of how cliché and just flat-out fucking sappy
my thoughts sound, but it’s my truth.
I lived in darkness for so long; I want to help bring light to
others.
I’m blessed with a family that I couldn’t have dreamed of,
and I’m raising kids who will be better than I ever was.
Tessa’s head falls to the side, and I brush her hair away
from her sleeping face. She’s been my calm, my fire, my
breath, my pain, and no matter what we’ve gone through,
every second was worth getting to the life we have now.
I dragged Tess and myself through hell and back, but here
we are—After everything, we made it to our own version of
heaven.
Acknowledgments
I feel like all of my acknowledgements for this book are
exactly the same as the last, but the same wonderful people
helped me with them—so thank you all!
Adam Wilson: Once again, I thank you for working so hard
with me. I learn so much from you and your patience with me.
We’ve had five books (that are really the length of ten) in one
year, and that’s just fucking nuts. I can’t wait for the next three
.
Kristin Dwyer: You’re the bomb, dude. You keep me
organized (as much as possible, since I just started to actually
save dates in my calendar). Thanks for everything!
Wattpad: Thank you for still being my home base and
staying organic and giving millions of people a place to do
what they love.
Ursula Uriarte: It’s so crazy to think that you came into my
life as a blogger who happened to like my books and now
you’re one of my closest friends. Even though I still can’t spell
your name, you are so, so important to me and to Hardin and
Tessa. You love them like I do, and that means a lot to them.
(They told me!)
Vilma and RK: I love you both and appreciate your
friendship so much. You talked me through the stages of
writing this book and listened to my freak-outs. I love you
both.
Ashleigh Gardner: Thank you for being the best agenty
friend I could have!
Thanks to the copyeditors and production staff, who
worked very hard under such tight deadlines.
A huge thank-you to all of my foreign publishers, from the
editors to the publicists and everyone in between. You all work
so hard to translate and market my books across the globe, and
it means so much to me and the readers. I’ve had the best time
visiting so many places and meeting so many readers all over
the world.
AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY J.D. WITKOWSKI
ANNA TODD is a writer spending her days in
Austin, Texas, with her husband. She has always been
an avid reader and boy band and romance lover, so
now that she’s found a way to combine the three, she’s
enjoying living a real-life dream come true. She now
knows what life is like when you get to do what you
love. She also has a thing for things that begin with
T’s: Tom Hanks, TOMS, Target . . .
Find her at AnnaTodd.com, on Twitter at
@imaginator1dx, on Instagram at @imaginator1d,
and on Wattpad as Imaginator1D.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/Anna-
Todd
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
SimonandSchuster.com
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@GalleryBooks
Wattpad.com/After
BOOKS BY ANNA TODD
After
After We Collided
After We Fell
After Ever Happy
Before
Gallery Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or
real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-5011-3070-0
ISBN 978-1-5011-3069-4 (ebook)
